


Halcyon Days

by Aurumite



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Light Fremmeryn?, Past Abuse, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:12:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 41,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1882950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurumite/pseuds/Aurumite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories about Emmeryn, Chrom, Lissa, and Frederick as they grow up together.<br/>[Chapter 16: "Don't kill him! Frederick, don't you dare!"<br/>"Your Grace," he seethed back, but dropped his weapon into the grass.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. Here's this story I've been rambling about for a while but haven't been working on seriously or actually posting. Time to get down to business: an absurdly long pre-game fic about Emmeryn, Frederick, Chrom, and Lissa as they grow up. Chapters will vary pretty severely in length. While Chrom and Lissa will definitely have their voices, the narration will be a little heavier on Emmeryn and Frederick’s end, because they’re older and able to comprehend more about the world and what's happening around them.
> 
> I do mess around with ages and timelines a little, since the game seems to have a lot of weird contradictions or things that were left completely un-fleshed out. AKA I'm making most of this up. If you see something particularly egregious, let me know and I'll try to reconcile it in later chapters. Otherwise, I'm just rolling with what makes sense to me XD.

Emmeryn might have been an angel, the first time he met her.

The vast throne room made Frederick blink owlishly; bright white morning light burst through the large glass panes lining both stone walls. A red carpet marked his path to the throne and dais and the girl standing there, shining. Sunlight made golden rings of her thick yellow curls. His knees creaked in protest when he knelt before her, his white tunic catching the light like her skin was, after the long night already spent kneeling.

He hadn’t imagined being knighted like this.

He’d imagined it would be the Exalt himself bringing down the sword, tall and imposing and dark-haired. But the Exalt was away now, fighting in Plegia. A war he had started, Frederick learned when he came to the capital to be squired. The thought made his stomach turn. Father always spoke about the Exalt like he was holy; infallible. And then the reports came of entire villages razed to the ground, the smoking corpses of women and children, rumors of atrocities done to Plegian prisoners. He supposed he was pleased that the Exalt’s daughter would instead do the deed, even if she was a slip of a girl and just past thirteen, and even if she used a decorative rapier that made her wrist tremble with its weight, rather than the legendary Falchion, which was out tasting innocent blood.

He’d imagined his father would be present. Proud, for once. Smiling, for once. Frederick would finally have earned his love by being knighted at fifteen, one of the youngest in a decade. No one would ever call him worthless again; he would be the most helpful and capable creature alive.  

But Father wasn’t here to see. He was out with the Exalt, warring, wearing his sword and his frown, blinded by his loyalty. Killing whomever his lord told him to kill without question.

Would he grow blind himself, Frederick wondered. If the Exalt called him too, would he not go? Was loyalty not the most important thing? His thoughts were broken:

“I dub thee Sir Frederick, knight of Ylisse.”

Emmeryn tapped him on each shoulder with her blade so gently that he barely felt it. Then she gave her sword to one of the knights at her side, lifted him up by the shoulders, and kissed his face. When she pulled away he saw circles under her eyes, very dark against her pale skin.

“My lady,” he said, feeling no different, “you look exhausted.”

“What a thing to say. Most knights, I am told, simply say 'thank you' or swear to serve Ylisse anew.”

“Yes, of course, but my foremost duty is now to your health and safety, and I intend to take it seriously. Shall I escort you back to your rooms? Are you ill? Is there anything I can do?”

“Do well,” she said with a soft smile. “Forgive me, I did not mean to appear so tired. But you are the first person I have ever knighted, and before bed last night, I couldn’t help but think of you at your vigil—being in that drafty old chapel all night, with your knees aching, alone and in the dark. So I stayed up all night too, and prayed for you.”

All night?

For him?

He was so touched that words failed him. She giggled at his expression, and the young Captain Phila appeared at her side.

“Come, Your Grace,” she said. “You have other duties to attend to, this morning.”

“Yes, Phila. Goodbye, Sir Frederick.”

She nearly floated out of the room in her modest green skirts, and he stared after her, heedless of the knights who came to clap him on the back.

This, then, was blind, unwavering loyalty; the most important thing. This was someone he could follow to the ends of the earth. This was someone he would never fail, no matter what a failure he was by nature.

He swore it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. The point of view will change each chapter. Next time it's Chrom's. 
> 
> Thank you dear Calanthys for listening to me moan about all this and for title feedback!


	2. Ascension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No tears,” Chrom reminded Lissa in a whisper. “Not in front of all these people.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the wiki, Emm was almost 10 when she became the Exalt, but I call BS on that. No 9-10 year old is going to end a war and get rocks thrown at her. So we’re making her 15. Chrom can be almost 10. 
> 
> Also, how the exalted brands work is very iffy. I've been told it surfaces over childhood, supposedly, and Lissa's for some reason never did. Since that makes so little sense to me, I'm just making it like a birthmark that she wasn't born with.

Chrom heard the courtiers arguing about which would be more proper: to keep the throne room curtained in black velvet, or to celebrate Emmeryn’s ascension properly and let the light in once more.

In the end, the earth had compromised for them. All the mourning black was taken down, but the day was consumed by a rainstorm so heavy that the room was gloomy and heavily shadowed, as if evening had already fallen.

A huge crowd gathered for the coronation: great lords and ladies, hundreds of knights, and whatever commoners had managed to wedge themselves through the door. Coronations, Chrom had been told, always started in the throne room and proceeded to the town square so that the new Exalt could address the people. Emmeryn’s advisors had begged her not to go because the rain was coming down so hard, but she’d insisted. He sure hoped the black sable she wore would keep her dry enough.

He wouldn’t mind a little rain, himself. He liked to be wet and jump in puddles. Maybe it would cheer Lissa up, too.

He ignored Emmeryn on the dais, repeating old boring oaths to some bishop holding Father’s crown on a pillow, and hugged Lissa a little closer to his side. She was shaking hard.

“No tears,” he reminded her in a whisper. “Not in front of all these people.”

“But…”

He pinched her arm to shut her up but that only sent her weeping after all. The crown behind them murmured sympathetically:  _Poor girl, only five. Poor boy, only nine. Poor Exalt Emmeryn, only fifteen_ .

Fifteen seemed so  _old_ to Chrom. Emmeryn could do it. If anyone could do anything, it was her. 

Lissa was mumbling to herself as she wet his new jacket: “Now we’re all alone.”

“Don’t be silly. We have each other.”

“I miss Father.”

_I do too_ , he tried to say, but the words got stuck in his throat, where they burned like he’d swallowed water the wrong way. When he was Lissa’s age, he loved Father more than anything. They were exactly alike: strong brands, hair like Marth, a fascination with swords. Father always ruffled his hair and let him have his way, even when Mother frowned. Chrom tried his best to be good because he loved Mother too. But then Lissa came around, and Mother died to give her life, as Emmeryn said. Chrom was not pleased with the trade. He’d sobbed in Emm’s arms for what felt like days. But when he first saw his new baby sister, his tears dried. 

_You’re going to be a good brother and take care of her, aren’t you, Chrom?_ Emmeryn asked, and he nodded until he got dizzy. He’d be the best brother in the world to her. That’s what Mother would have wanted. That’s what Lissa deserved, who would have no memory of her. 

And then Father made it home for the birth, delayed by the weather, too late for everything. When he learned Lissa didn’t have a mark like him and Emm, he demanded Mother.

“She passed, Your Grace,” the midwife said, hands shaking.

“The gods are merciful,” said Father. “I should have liked to hang her, instead.”

Emmeryn covered Chrom’s ears, but it was too late. When Father left for the fray again, a few days later, Chrom winced when his hair was ruffled. He never saw him again.

Why was a stupid mark worth wanting to kill his mother? Or ignoring Lissa, who cried against him, missing a man she’d barely met because she didn’t understand more than that she was orphaned? He held her a little tighter and whispered, “Look,” as the shiny crown was placed on Emmeryn’s head. That helped to distract her.

“I would like to make my first blessing here,” Emmeryn said. Her voice always had the strangest way of filling up a room, even though she spoke quietly. “I am not the only one who has lost someone, in this last battle. I know a great many of us were affected. If you, too, are grieving now, please step forward.”

A great number of the crowd edged their way to the front. Chrom was a little stunned by it all. Who had lost fathers, like him? Who had lost mothers? Brothers, sisters, lovers, best friends? More than one?

Lissa began to cry again as Emm raised her hands elegantly and invoked the gods to ease their grief. A tall knight who had come forward crouched by them and handed her an impeccably white handkerchief. She wiped her face off and stared at him as if wondering where he’d come from.

“Thanks,” she squeaked.

“No need, milady. A true knight is always prepared.”

She handed the snot-covered cloth back before Chrom could tell her how gross that was, but the knight pocketed it as if nothing was amiss and stepped back into the crowd while Emmeryn finished her blessing. Then she stepped off the dais and looked at the two of them.

“Ready to go to the square?” she asked. “I ask you not to jump in too many puddles, but I’ll turn a blind eye to one or two.”

Chrom lost his own grip then, bursting into tears as Lissa had only a moment ago. Whatever hatred Father harboured, no one would ruffle his hair again and call him their boy. No one would hug like Mother did. And now even Emm was practically gone, changed: the shape of her face looked different with her hair done so formally, and the crown on her head was so strange, and she never wore black, and there was such tiredness chiseled into her face. This wasn’t the sister he knew. Nothing would ever be the same.

“Now,” she said calmly. “Don’t cry. Everything will be all right.”

But she sounded the same. The love he felt radiating from her was the same. The words she used to quiet him were the same. He took a deep breath, and he and Lissa each took one of her hands, and she shepherded them all out into the rain.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be from Emmeryn's PoV.


	3. Pillars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something struck her shoulder hard and dropped to the ground, narrowly missing her foot. A rock. She exhaled slowly. _Father, look what your tyranny has left for me._

Early on, Emmeryn decided to make weekly visits to the town square, so that she could speak to the people about the progress of the war.

It was easy to end it, all things considered. With her father dead and the Plegian throne in turmoil, there was no one left in power to keep warmongering. No one but her. So she sent a white flag with a messenger and ordered the first wave of troops on the vanguard home.

She was sure the people would be pleased, especially after the casualties of the last battle, but she was still nervous when she reached the square and saw the crowd. She never had been one for speaking much, and now she had to make speeches very often. Despite the season, the air was as still and thick as that of a summer day. They watched her carefully. She stepped away from Phila, the six pegasus knights accompanying her, and the gaggle of bishops.  

“I bring you good news,” she began to the people over their eerie silence. “Plegia and I have reached an agreem—”

Something struck her shoulder hard and dropped to the ground, narrowly missing her foot. A rock. She exhaled slowly. _Father, look what your tyranny has left for me._

“An agreement,” she continued, a little louder. “As of this morning, the war—”

White light and pain lanced through her eyes and nose; a second rock had hit her temple. While she fought to keep her balance and finish her sentence, another cracked against her jaw. She might have cried out, had her mouth not filled with blood. She heard Phila draw steel.

“Who did this!”

“Stop!” Emmeryn managed, one hand held out to her guard and the other covering her throbbing lips. The crowd murmured and she saw many reach for their belts as her vision cleared. “Stand down.”

“Someone hurt you.”

“They’re still all my people. Retaliating is what Father would have done. I won’t allow it.”

Because truthfully, she understood. The Ylisseans were frightened. She carried the same Exalted blood and bore the same brand; it was easy to see how she might lead them to the same destructive fate. A child’s role model was their father.

But Emmeryn was no child any longer. She rolled back her shoulders and raised her head, willing to take another stone. If that was what it took to reassure them that she would not cut them down, so be it. They deserved that much, after what they had lived through.

A gentle hand touched her elbow and one of the bishops appeared at her side, hazy through her right eye, staff in hand.

“No,” she told him gently. “Many people here cannot afford healings for things as trivial as bruises. My face will heal on its own just as well.”

He looked at her like she’d gone mad. She turned from him and lifted her voice to the crowd again.

“The war with Plegia is over. Our treaty is being drafted today. Our soldiers are marching home at this moment.”

She gave them every detail she was able so they knew how soon to expect their parents and siblings and children, fighting through the splitting headache she’d developed, occasionally pausing to reach for her handkerchief and clean the coat of blood off her tongue. And at the end, the hate was gone from their eyes. They did not look at her with love or trust, no. They were still apprehensive and bitter. She still had much work to do. But the hate was gone.  

She hoped she could make it stay gone, but her head hurt and she was not so sure. She may have been the Exalt in name, but her heart knew that she was nothing. A frightened little girl, holding on only because Chrom and Lissa were too young to.

xxx

 Dividing Father’s belongings was difficult.

Emmeryn spread them all out across Father’s— _her_ —white coverlet. It was everything his knights had retrieved from that final battle. Falchion, of course, would go to Chrom, her little hero. The blade was hers by right but she could hardly stand to look at it. Lissa might like Father’s rings; she loved shiny things even if she hated wearing jewellery. She could set them as ornaments on her dressing table. Did Emmeryn want his gloves? Did she want to encase her hand and remember how massive he always was, think back to when those large hands made her feel safe? She thought not. They would be donated to a soldier too poor for such nice gloves. 

She would give her siblings their due in a week or so, she decided. They had cried for the goodnight kiss she had been “too busy” to give them, but she did not want them worrying about her face. She was quite a sight by that evening, with her right eye swelled and the cheek underneath purple. They had enough to think about.

Her fingers brushed the edge of Father’s cold shield. Had it always been so simple? If she remembered correctly, his shield had been heavily engraved and set with precious stones, to mimic the Fire Emblem.

“Phila,” she called from the doorway. “This is not my father’s.”

Her guard walked in that easy way of hers through the parlour and into the bedroom. “No, it does not appear to be. But they found it with his body. Perhaps it was his lieutenant’s.”

“Of course,” she murmured. He was a stern and austere man, from what she remembered. His family had served hers for generations. Such a shield could easily be his.

“His son is among our ranks, now. We should return it to him.”

Emmeryn nodded. “Send him to me, please.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

“Oh, not at once. Just whenever is convenient for him.”

Phila gave her an amused smile and left. She sighed to herself and went back to sifting through armour. Her dear guard, too, clearly thought her as naïve as the rest of the court did, but Phila at least seemed to like the idea. Emmeryn was lucky to have her. She was already a pillar of strength during this very difficult time: always supportive, always close.

Phila returned and announced her guest so quickly that Emmeryn stiffened. Apparently “convenient” had been “at once” after all. She carried the shield into the parlour, stopping short when she got a good look at the lieutenant’s son.

“It’s you,” she said in surprise. The boy she’d first knighted. He was hardly more than a boy still—seventeen, now, perhaps; she remembered him being extraordinarily young. He was much taller, these years later, and his shoulders had broadened, but he was still rather gangly.

“That’s right,” said Phila as if remembering, “I suppose I do not need to formally introduce Sir Frederick to you.”

But saying his name had been a subtle reminder, Emmeryn knew. She felt her cheeks tinge pink. _Frederick, of course_. She must have prayed his name a thousand times on the night of his vigil. How had she forgotten, after all that? What a terrible Exalt she was shaping up to be.

Her thoughts were broken when he began to kneel, to kiss her hem. The shield tumbled to the carpet as she grasped his shoulders and pulled him back up.

“No, please,” she said. “I do not like when people kneel before me. I’ve already forbidden Phila to.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he stammered.

He had a peculiar way of holding himself, like he believed he was an imposition and was trying to disappear. It was so stiff. To make things less formal, she gestured to the ground instead of picking up the shield again and presenting it.

“This is why I’ve summoned you. This was your father’s, was it not?”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

“I thank you for his sacrifice, and your family’s. He served my father until the very end—so closely that they brought me his shield by mistake. Now it is yours.”

His eyes were cool as he scanned its dented, silvery surface and then flickered up to meet hers very briefly.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I want nothing of his.”

That surprised her. His gaze was fixed to the floor now, but she had seen enough. There was pain, there: not the sharp sort borne of fresh grief, but the bitter sort caused by years of it.

“I understand,” she said, meaning every word. “You are dismissed, then.”

He bowed, but hesitated as he rose. His eyes met hers again and traveled down the edge of her swollen face, where they lingered.

“If I may be so bold,” he said, “perhaps Your Grace should assign someone to clear the square of rocks before you go to speak again.”

“Make someone take the time to pick up every single little pebble?” she asked, amused. She had not expected someone so severe to have such a morbid sense of humour.

“I would gladly volunteer,” he said. Her smile slipped away.

He’d been completely serious. How odd. How endearingly odd.

“That won’t be necessary, Frederick. People need to throw things when they are angry, you see. But anger fades. I must be patient with them.”

“Are you quite sure you will not allow me to kiss your hem, Your Grace?”

Another odd remark. She nodded, confused. Frederick took his leave, then, and when he and Phila both turned for the door, the sight of their backs made her realize it.

She had done something right. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she’d done it. Now she had two Ylisseans who were completely loyal to her.

She shut her eyes after the door did. _Only hundreds of thousands left to go._

xxx

The next week, it was fruit that struck her face. An apple so rotten that it exploded on impact, spraying her with sweet brown mush.

Emmeryn laughed. Before everyone assembled, she laughed like she had lost her wits.

“Your Grace,” Phila murmured, steadying her by the shoulders. “These times are very trying for you; such stress is normal. Let us go back to the castle and rest.”

“But Phila, don’t you see?” She gleefully wiped a streak of juice from her face. “They’re throwing fruit. That means there were no rocks to throw. Not in the whole square.”

xxx

In the weeks after, she made sure to keep a close eye on Frederick. The castle’s large glass windows offered her splendid views of all the courtyards, barracks, and fields while she walked from meeting to meeting. At first it pleased her to spot him below once in a while, after the kindness he had done to her, but gradually her heart sank as she noticed a pattern.

Frederick, as far as she could tell, had no one. She wasn’t sure if he distanced himself from the other knights or if they distanced themselves from him, but the end result was the same. Frederick ate alone, walked alone, and brushed down his horse alone. And when he was alone, he shrank into himself, as if he were afraid of taking up too much space even with no one to share it. With little effort she was able to find out that he had no siblings and his mother had died when he was a child.

His awkwardness slipped away when he fought, though. He was graceful on horseback with an axe and swift on foot with a sword. He seemed confident and whole in his armour. Every opponent she saw him spar against, he knocked flat. And when he was training alone, as he often seemed to, such a passion overcame him that she couldn’t help but be proud. Knights of Ylisse would need to be strong to keep the peace that she was bringing.

“Your Grace?”

Phila interrupted her reverie. That morning she was standing before the southern windows, looking down at the town. “Yes, Phila?”

“Have you put any more thought into who you will chose as your Royal Guard? We really can not delay this any longer.”

“Yes, of course.” Twenty elite knights to keep her safe, as was tradition. Ten of them had died with her father. Mercifully, Phila had not been among them. Emmeryn was to promote new ones, and had in fact given the matter a great deal of consideration.

She listed a few names Phila nodded approvingly at: veterans and able-bodied men and women all. The best and the brightest.

“And Frederick,” she said for the tenth.

Phila raised an eyebrow. “Truly, Your Grace? But he’s so…young.”

“He is talented.”

“That he is, but.” She paused. “Please reconsider. They say he’s overzealous. Aggravating. As a squire, you know, he did nothing but practice until he broke the quintain. That’s why they knighted him so early. They had no idea what else to do with him.”

“Should dedication not be rewarded?”

“Your Grace, in your kindness, it is probably hard for you to understand. People who are so devoted are also occasionally…unwell. It would be better for you to pick a more adjusted candidate.”

But this was something she could do. A difference she could make. 

“You do not need Frederick,” said Phila.

“No,” Emmeryn replied with a smile. “I think he needs me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What no Emmeryn’s leadership quirks like hating kneeling aren’t based on Saint JPII why would you think that. (But Emmeryn is basically pope, let’s not even lie.)
> 
> The next chapter will be in Lissa's PoV for the first half and Chrom's for the second.


	4. Curses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Princesses were not allowed to carry frogs in their skirts. Or in their hands.
> 
> Lissa was a bad princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For ages: Like the previous chapters, Lissa is 5 here, and Chrom is 9.

Lissa was happy to be up in the tree.

Trees were nice. Trees were fun. The sun was warm on her cheeks and the bark rough under her hands. It had rained for so long, she thought it would never be spring again.

Winter had been yucky and cold. She had lots of ladies in her room every morning who pulled her hair when they brushed it and made her wear all kinds of stupid skirts. Lissa hated skirts. They were hard to run in, and when she tried, the ladies all said that princesses shouldn’t run. Princesses were also not allowed to carry frogs in their skirts. Or in their hands.

Lissa was a bad princess.

All winter, Emmeryn was busy and had weird bruises on her face and arms from falling out of bed. The spring came eventually, and Emmeryn was so great that people started to cheer when she went to go see them, and her bruises went away, but Lissa didn’t want to forget the thought. Emmeryn was a very good and lovely princess with a big shiny crown, so Lissa found it funny that her big, big sister still did silly things like fall out of bed in the night. Even Lissa didn’t fall out of bed anymore.

She also missed Daddy—or, at least, having a Daddy. When he was around, she got to see Emm a lot, but that wasn’t an option anymore. On the bright side, she got to spend lots of time with Chrom. They played all kinds of silly games. Today she was a rabbit and he was threatening to catch her and shave all her hair off for a nice pair of gloves.

“Lissa!” he called grumpily from the ground. “Rabbits don’t climb trees!”

“Can’t catch me!” she called back breezily, ignoring that.

“Come down! You might fall!”

“I won’t! I don’t even fall out of bed. I’m a big girl! My hand ladies are wrong and I’m very, very big!” Lissa spread her arms, lifted her chin proudly, and began to walk out along a branch.

“Lissa, don’t do that!”

“Make me!”

“I’ll tell on you!”

“I’ll tell on you!” she mimicked in a high voice that made him mad. Ever since Emmeryn gave him Daddy’s dumb old sword, he’d decided he was a big, manly man with a deep, manly voice. Lissa knew better, and liked to remind him of it.

“Fine, I’ll never play with you again. Watch me!”

“I’ll come down if you kiss my hand!” Knights kissed Emm’s hand all the time, even when she told them not to. Lissa wished she could be so grown up.

“Never! Don’t you know? If you kiss a girl, you get a sickness called cooties and you die.”

“Emmy gives us kisses almost every night!”

“I don’t let her.” He lifted his chin. “I’m the man of the house and I can’t take care of you both if I get sick and die.”

“That’s dumb.”

“You’re dumb!”

“No, you!” She turned her head to glare down at him and lost her footing.

A swoop in her tummy, wind, blurs of colour, red behind her scrunched eyelids, _crunch_.

xXx

“Lissa, no!”

Chrom couldn’t get to her fast enough and she hit the ground hard. He slid to his knees beside her so fast that he scraped them on the twigs in the grass.

“Lissa, Lissa!”

She was clutching her right wrist, which was bent funny, and crying so loud he wanted to cover his ears.

“Are you okay?”

No answer. Only tears.

“Calm down!” he tried to bargain. “We’re going to get in trouble!”

“It hurts!”

“I know!” he stammered. “It looks like it! But you’re a big girl, right? Isn’t that what you said?”

“Chrom, make it stop!” she wailed, and his chest ached so badly he wanted to claw at it.

“I will!” But what could he do? What healed wounds? Staves and magic? Then they’d have to tell Emmeryn, and they’d get in big trouble. Bandages? It would take him too long to find some, and Lissa was suffering. Kisses?

Oh, gods.

“Hold still,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm, though it trembled anyway. “I’ll kiss it and make it better.”

“No!” She winced away as he ducked his head toward her hand. “You’ll die!”

“But Lissa!”

“I won’t let you!”

“You’re my only baby sister!”

She was crying too hard to protest now, so he scrambled to her left side, where she was cradling her wrist, and pecked his lips against it. Impending Death smelled like grass and was pleasantly sunny. He supposed he could go in peace, if he had helped Lissa.

“There,” he said. “Better?”

But she was still crying.

“Better?” he repeated anxiously.

She sobbed and hiccoughed and wiggled her legs in pain, and then finally shook her head.

“It didn’t work?!”

“Uh-uh!”

“Gods!” All that for nothing! Despite himself, Chrom started to tear up, too. There was such pain in Lissa’s voice that he was sure she was going to die, and he had been able to do nothing about it. And now he was dying, too.  

“Lissa,” a voice called, commanding but oddly calm. Chrom lept to his feet as Emm swept into the garden. “What happened?”  

“I fell out of the tree,” she bawled as she stuck out her wrist. “Emmy, it hurts!”

“Here, love.” She knelt and scooped Lissa into her arms, but she looked over at Chrom.  

"I did everything I could!" he insisted. Emmeryn had to believe him; she had to! "I kissed it like the storybooks always say to, and now I'm going to die from cooties, but she still isn't any better! She won't stop crying!"

Before he knew it, he was sobbing too. He'd give his own life up for Lissa, but the sacrifice was useless. And he'd promised when she was born to be good to her. He was the worst older brother ever.

"Oh, Chrom," Emmeryn said with a big smile. She stood gingerly with Lissa but reached down to wipe his tears. "Don't you see? Kisses can't take away pain. The storybooks always leave that out. Pain is forever--it will teach us lessons. But by loving her, you've broken Lissa's curse."

"Curse?" he asked with a hiccup, and even Lissa quieted in confusion.

"That's right," Emmeryn said solemnly. "She was going to die, you know.”

“I know. I’ve never heard anybody cry that hard.”

“But with your selfless act, braving the kiss, you broke the curse, so even if you can't take Lissa's pain away, you saved her life."

"Really?" Lissa asked in a soft voice. Emmeryn took her hand from Chrom's face to wipe the youngest's tears. "Thanks, Chrom."

"I'd die for you any old day, Lissa," he said, trying to sound brave and just crying more. Death was scarier the more he thought about it, and it was hard to confront without Emm's hand. She just smiled in that quiet way of hers like she had some big secret.

"You're not going to die, Chrom. An act of True Love will always save you."

"You mean it?" he and Lissa asked at the same time.

"I do. Because you are such good siblings, you will both live. I'm very proud of you."

Chrom scrubbed at his eyes while Emm stood with Lissa in her arms.

"Come, dears. We must get this wrist healed and splinted right away."

"I'll kiss it again, to tide you over!" Chrom insisted, which made Lissa weakly stick her tongue out.

"Maybe I don't want _your_ cooties."

But she extended her tiny, oddly-angled hand, so Chrom kept to his word.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chrom and Lissa, Most Annoying Siblings 2k14.


	5. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lissa can't do anything right. Chrom is precocious. Emmeryn makes Frederick her new project.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Which Frederick Gets Adopted, basically.

“I doubt he will enjoy being made one of your projects, Your Grace,” Phila muttered as they went down the corridor. It was nearly time for Emmeryn's first meeting: a briefing on all the restoration projects she had begun. Emphasis on free schooling for young men and women, now that they were not all being drafted as soldiers.

“Project,” Emmeryn repeated through her smile. “What a way to phrase it.”

“I suppose I will never fully understand you, milady, although I will continue to endeavour to do so.”

“Oh, Phila.” Emmeryn gave her hand a brief squeeze. “I of course care very much for you, too.”

Her lips quirked upward before she nodded her head—the closest Emmeryn would allow to a bow. They had reached the large, oaken double doors that led to the vaulted room she preferred to use for large meetings. Phila, having escorted her here from her rooms, would now leave to perform her other duties. Frederick guarded the hallway, positioned by the closed doorway. Inside the room, five more of her twenty personal guards would be stationed. She could not even go to the privy without being accompanied, and she still had not become accustomed to it.

“Goodbye, Phila. I will see you this evening.”

“'Til then, Your Grace.”

The captain left. She was quite alone with him. It was time for her plan to begin.

"Frederick," Emmeryn said before she opened the doors.

He looked surprised to be addressed. "Milady?"

"I would like you to know that you are a wonderful man and I love you."

He blushed so fast she suddenly regretted her bluntness, afraid he would faint.

"Your Grace! You hardly know—I have only been in your service for—"

"I have already been made aware of the content of your character."

"Forgive me, Your Grace." He regained control, clenched his hand around the hilt of his sword and attempting a smile. "I am unaccustomed to such teasing."

"I was not teasing. I meant every word." 

"That is impossible."

"You do not believe me, then?"

"With all due respect, you should save your kind words for knights more worthy of them."

"I simply knew you would react this way. Never fear, Sir Frederick. I will say it until you believe me."

"That is not at all necessary."

But then the doors were open, the guards within alerted by the sound of her voice, so she entered the meeting room and ignored him entirely.

xxx

Emmeryn's twenty guards always took turns standing outside her bedchamber at night, in the event that an assassin could somehow breach the castle walls—an event that was looking less and less likely with every passing day, with how quickly she won the people over. Frederick still decided it was better to be safe than sorry.

It was his first night at this particular post. While he preferred an axe, Phila had advised him to bring his lance instead, so that he would have something to lean on until his replacement came for him in the middle of the night.

“I will heed your advice, but I will not grow weary,” he assured her, his mouth a firm line.

“Goodwill is quite lost on you, isn't it, Frederick.” But she smiled as if he had said something impressive, so he did not take offense. It was the first time he'd seen Phila smile at anyone besides Exalt Emmeryn or one of the pegasus knights in her wing.

He arrived for duty at her door at the same time the two women appeared, the former neat and alert as ever and Emmeryn looking a little drowsy. It must have been a long day. The two exchanged a fond goodbye.

“Goodnight to you too, Frederick,” said Emmeryn after Phila had left, one hand on the doorknob.   
  
“Not quite yet, Your Grace.”

He put a hand out to keep her back and entered the room before her. First order of business: behind the door. Clear. He walked to the first window and moved aside the curtains. Clear. Knelt to look under the bed. Clear. As he stood, he turned the bedsheets down while he was at it.

For a moment he wondered why a handmaid had not already done that, until he remembered the word spreading around the castle that Emmeryn had dismissed all her handmaids, insisting that she did not need nor want anyone waiting on her.

The slippers she had worn that morning in the chapel to praise Naga were just outside her wardrobe. He frowned and opened the doors to set them neatly inside, peeking behind her clothes while he was at it. Clear. Then he went to her writing desk and looked into the gap where her seat slid into it. Clear. There was a smudge of lead on the wooden surface from where she had been drafting some paper or other. He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped it clean. Then he moved to the next window and checked its curtains, as he had with the first.

"Frederick?"

"Milady?"

"What are you doing?"

She sounded baffled. He looked over at her, just as confused.

"Checking your room for assassins. Do all of your knights not do this before their nightly watch?"

"Of course not. Someone guards the door all day. How could an assassin possibly get in?"

"By scaling the balcony, of course. Most royal families live in the centre of their castles; for some reason yours has always been adamant upon being able to see the people, despite the hazards."

She bit down hard on her lower lip. He realized she was trying not to smile.

"This is no laughing matter, Your Grace. But your rooms seem to be quite safe, for the time being. 'Tis time for bed." 

He crossed behind her, pulled her phelonion up and over her head, and had taken his first step back to her wardrobe to hang it up before he felt her stare.

"You undressed me," she said—not accusing, but as if repeating something new that she had just learned. He blinked and took her in: thin white shift, bare shoulders. When all the implications hit, his face began to burn with a vengeance and he dropped the garment like it might bite him.

"Oh, Your Grace! Please forgive me! I wasn't thinking."

This time she didn't hold back her smile. "No, you weren't, were you."

"I just wanted to be helpful." His cheeks hurt already from blushing. "I swear I will never again be so careless."

"Sir Frederick."

"Forgive me, please. I had no ill intentions. I would never—"

"Frederick. I know."

His thoughts had been sprinting, all of them in one long chaotic race, and at her words, the one in front tripped and the rest fell over it.

"You what?"

"I know you wouldn't. It's very nice, actually, that you could do something like undress me with nary a thought that might make me uncomfortable. You may continue."

Her smile was so gentle that he had no choice but to return it. He hung her phelonion so it wouldn't wrinkle and then returned to take her mantle and gloves off for her.

"I hope we shall be good friends," she said.

"I am but your humble servant."

But he was honoured nonetheless. And so delighted that he could not possibly grow drowsy at his post. When his replacement came, true to the promise he had given Phila, Frederick was as alert as ever. Alert and smiling. No one had ever asked to be his friend, before.

xxx

Every morning, Emmeryn made her point of praising Frederick, and every morning he sputtered and stiffened and denied all of it. After a month, she began to think that perhaps this was not all as easy as simply saying nice words. But words were all she had, at the moment, and she was determined to make him stop standing like he wished to disappear.

Chrom and Lissa could get him to do it, somehow. They had taken a liking to him right away, after he had promised to have a wooden sword fight with Chrom and a tea party with Lissa, and kept to his word on both counts. (And when Lissa refused to wear the frilly pink sun hat made just for the occasion, insisting it was too pink and frilly, Frederick put it on instead and Chrom laughed himself breathless.) But when he was alone with Emmeryn, he shrank, and she wondered at it. Perhaps she would have to take things one step at a time.

“Frederick,” she said the next morning.

“Your Grace?” He eyed her.

"You are a wonderful man."

A hesitation, but finally an acceptance: "Thank you, Your Grace. I strive to make it so."

"And I love you."

"You mustn't say such things," he said, ducking his head. "You don't—I'm not—"

"And I love you, Frederick." She brushed gently past him and into the room.

xxx

As soon as Chrom was done with his lessons for the day, he hurried down to the barracks on the first floor.

"Frederick!" he called at the open door. Several soldiers were sitting in their common room, talking or playing cards. The one Chrom was looking for sat alone in the corner, polishing a very large axe. He glanced up immediately.

"Sire?"

"Are you on duty?"

"Not for the rest of the afternoon, milord."

"Oh, good! Do you want to go fight with wooden swords again?"

"Of course. Just a moment." Frederick was up and gone in an instant, presumably to put away the axe, for he returned empty-handed and with his sleeves rolled crisply up. Chrom was quick to lead him off down the hallway, waving at Phila as she entered the barracks with one amused eyebrow raised.

"I'm really glad you have fun with this, too, Frederick," he said. "After all, you can use a real sword already, so you don't need to pretend. And you're too old to play."

That made him smile. "Really, now. How old do you think I am?"

"At least thirty," Chrom teased.

"Alas! Only eighteen. Two years older than your sister."

"She acts thirty, too."

"That she does."

"You love her, don't you?"

Frederick stopped dead in his tracks. Chrom did too, squinting a little to look back at the knight, since the light was coming through the windows very brightly.

"All knights must love their Exalt, sire,” Frederick said.

Chrom whistled. “I guess so. I know you kiss her hand all the time, but you haven't died from kissing a girl yet. And she told me a while ago that True Love can save you from all kinds of curses."

“That...isn't quite how it works.”

“But that's what she said! I love her so much that I'm completely invincible. So all you knights feel the same way, then?”

"Yes," Frederick said, relaxing a little. “We all hope to be her dearest friends.”

“Friends like me and you! We could save each other from all kinds of evil spells, huh?"

"Me and you?" he repeated, before dropping to a knee and taking Chrom's hand. "Milord, I am so honoured. I will be the dearest friend you've ever had. No evil spell shall ever find you."

"Stop!" he ordered with a smile. Frederick was a lot like Emm—they both kept such straight faces that it was hard to tell when they were being serious and when they were being sarcastic.

"Ah, but I mean it,” Frederick said as he rose. “I swear myself anew to you in friendship, sire.”

"All right! And I swear back. We don't have to kiss, though, do we?”

Frederick snorted and Chrom looked up at him in surprise. He'd never heard the knight laugh before. It made him laugh, a little, too.

xxx

Emmeryn heard often that she always looked at peace. Unshakable and calm. She rarely felt that way, but she supposed it was nice to be able to put on the facade, for the sake of others. The past few weeks, however, made her genuinely happy. Lissa and Chrom had adjusted to all her new duties, and got along splendidly in her absence. Chrom and Frederick were thick as thieves, constantly playing at fighting until that grew naturally into actual sparring lessons. It disconcerted her a little to watch Chrom take so easily and eagerly to the art of war, but she trusted Frederick to help him use Falchion for the good of the people.

It would be the first time in a long time that sword would be wielded by hands with good intentions. She prayed for her little brother every morning—and for her little sister, who scowled at the boys' sparring like she too knew what it would bring one day, and detested it. As soon as she was old enough, Emmeryn wanted to teach Lissa to heal. She had the perfect spirit for it.

“Your Grace.”

Her thoughts were broken as she reached the end of the hall. Her meetings would begin behind the large doors before her, as always. Phila left with a sharp nod, as always. Frederick stood guard, as always. And, as always:

"Good morning, Frederick. You are a wonderful man and I love you."

"Thank you, Your Grace."  
  
There. He'd accepted the compliment stoically, without blushing or protesting.

"That's not right," she told him, and ignored the surprised slant to his eyebrows as she walked by yet again.

It didn't mean anything if he let it pour off him like rain. She had to teach him to absorb it.

xxx

Unladylike. Lissa heard that word a zillion times a day. It annoyed her a lot. So what if she liked frogs and mud puddles and running barefoot? She was still a princess. She still had lady parts. But no matter how much she tried to sit still or keep the hem of her skirt clean, nothing was good enough for her handmaidens. She was _unladylike_.

For a little while, this made her want to spend more time with Chrom and Frederick and all the other men. They were also unladylike, since they weren't ladies at all. She tried to play pranks on people but no one played them back, and only excused her with a polite, “Milady.” She tried to join in one of Chrom's spars but couldn't lift his heavy practice sword, and then he scolded her out of the ring, insisting she could get hurt.

“Here,” an exasperated handmaiden said one day, plucking Lissa out of the chicken coop, where she'd been hiding, and carrying her to the garden. “Play with flowers. There's nothing messy about flowers.”

Lissa thought this was a good idea. She liked flowers a lot. Was that ladylike? Maybe, since a lady had sat her in the middle of a bunch of them. She sang to herself and picked as many as she could, enjoying their pretty colours and the smell of grass and dirt. Once she had enough, she decided to weave a flower crown for Emmeryn. And once that turned out pretty well, she decided to make them for her entire guard. All they did was guard all day, and it looked so boring!

The handmaidens stared at her, maybe confused, but they didn't stop Lissa as she skipped into the castle with twenty-one raggedy flower crowns looped over her arms. They only trailed behind her. Emm was in a meeting so Lissa handed two out to the men standing guard at the big closed doors. They took them from her but just held them instead of putting them on.

“They're crowns,” Lissa informed them. One cleared his throat.

“Of course, milady. But only your sister may wear such a, er, fine crown.”

“But I made it for you!”

“We are here to look frightening, Princess. Flower crowns are for little maidens such as yourself.”

Crestfallen, Lissa went to go look for other knights, but they all rejected her gifts in the same way. Even the women. It was a breach of dress code. It would look like they were not taking their posts seriously. Flowers were for proper ladies, milady. By the end of the afternoon, Lissa was even more confused than ever. She was so unladylike, but now she was also too much of a lady?

By now she only had two crowns left, and was very upset about Emmeryn's. She had made it out of dandelions, to match their hair, but the dandelions were dying the fastest of all the flowers, and Emm's crown was already browned and withered. It would be ruined by the time she got out of her meeting. The other one, made of daisies, was only slightly better. Still, she'd spent so much time making them that when she finally came across the last knight, Frederick, in the corridor, she handed it up to him.

“For me?” he asked.

“Yeah. I made them for everybody. It's a crown. Are you going to wear it?”

“Ah, well, milady...” He turned it over gently in his hands and then gave it back. “I am about to go on duty, for the evening watch, and...”

And Lissa was a dumb little girl who couldn't fit in anywhere or do anything right. Twenty times out of twenty.

“Okay,” she said, eyes filling, lips wobbling. “I get it. I'll just go look for Emmy again. She can have them both, if she wants them.”

She didn't want Frederick to see her cry. From the way his eyebrows slanted, it was too late. She tried to run away, but he called after her,

“M-Milady! Was that crown, perchance, made of daisies?”

“Yeah.” The tears were in her voice now as she turned back. “Why?”

“How silly of me. I only did not want to wear it because I feared it did not match the rest of my outfit. But daisies are white, and white goes well with everything! That was a clever choice on your part.”

“Clever?” she repeated in shock. He was walking toward her now, taking the crown out of her hands, putting it right on his head.

“Perhaps periwinkles would be even better, next time,” he said. “They would bring out the blue in my armour.”

“Next time?” Her tears escaped, but only because she had squinted her eyes up in a big smile. “Okay! I'll make you a flower crown every day!”

He returned the smile, although there was something grimace-like about it. “What a lucky man I am.”

“Come on!” Lissa took his hands and began to drag him out to the garden. “Point out all the flowers that will match! I want to know! And we can make Emmeryn a much better crown than this!”

She tossed the wilted dandelions to the floor behind them. A handmaiden sighed “unladylike” and picked it up. Lissa didn't care. Lissa was going back out to play with her new best friend.

xxx

Over half a year as Exalt, now. Emmeryn had hardly believed it would happen, but she was finally settling into a rhythm. Growing confident. People cheered for her now, with light and openness in their eyes. She hoped to do them all proud, lead them all well. 

Chrom had turned ten. He would reach manhood a little earlier than most boys, the clerics said. Emmeryn had already heard his voice crack—just once, and not very deeply, so she pretended it was a fluke and tucked him into bed with extra firmness. He let her kiss his forehead but he scowled about it. Lissa had turned six. She, at least, was still very much a child. Emmeryn wanted to sit with her and start explaining staves, but every time she tried, something important demanded her attention. Lissa never shed a tear, but the way she looked up at her each time she was left...

"You are frowning this morning, Your Grace," Frederick told her as she reached the door. "'Tis a rare sight." 

"I was just thinking," she said. She would have to find time. She would have to do better, for Lissa and for all of them. Her morning would start with this one right here, and perhaps after supper she would find a way to play with her siblings. "Frederick—"  

He dropped his eyes as he always did, but this time he smiled. It cut her off. 

"I am a wonderful man and you love me," he said. Quietly, but without the lift of a question at the end. For the first time in weeks, Emmeryn's smile parted her lips.

"Yes," she said, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Perfect."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a couple readers now ask for more Frederick, so luckily this chapter was already in the works XP. The next chapter is all Lissa's PoV.


	6. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Lissa’s own screaming woke her up.]

Lissa’s own screaming woke her up.

Monsters, swords, something about Father. She’d been running like a thousand hands were holding her back, looking for Chrom and Emmeryn, but they weren’t anywhere. Nobody was anywhere except the monsters.

"Milady?" someone said. Her screaming had woken somebody else, up, too. "It was only a dream."

"What?" she wobbled back. The voice sounded familiar. A handmaid? Yes, the one on the pallet on the floor. Lissa was in her bed, even though she was breathing hard like she really had been running. Her sheets were all tangled. Her hair was wet. She started to cry.

"I don’t feel good. I want Emmy."

"It was only a dream," the maid said again. Her voice was the soothing one she used before bedtime, but it didn’t calm Lissa down any better now than it did then. She jumped out of bed and sprinted for the door. A hand grasped at her nightgown and missed.

"Milady!" the maid called from behind her. She ran even faster, whimpering with every breath, heart in her throat. "Not at this hour of the night! The Exalt needs her sleep!"

 _Don’t call her that!_ Lissa wanted to yell back, but her voice was still mostly stuck. It was too easy to imagine the maid as another monster chasing her. The corridors had looked the same in her dream, big and dark and cold. She threw herself around the corner, charged past more doors and guttering torches.

"Princess Lissa!" Now the voice was sharp.

There! One of the royal guards! Lissa skidded to a stop before her and Emmeryn’s big heavy doorway, tears still falling. The woman crouched to look into her face.

"Milady, what is it?"

"I want Emmy," she pleaded. "I had a nightmare. Please let me see her."

" _Princess Lissa_." The maid swooped down onto them all too quickly. "It was a dream. None of it was real. This is no reason to go bothering the Exalt in the middle of the night!"

"But she makes me feel better!"

"How can you be so selfish?"

The knight stood, mouth opening, but she didn’t say anything. Lissa wasn’t sure what to say either. She _did_ feel selfish. Awful. Like she might be sick. But she was still so scared.

The door creaked open. The maid gasped and the knight tightened her grip on her spear and Lissa rushed through the dark crack and clung to the warm legs she met behind it.

"What all is the matter?" Emmeryn asked sleepily. A hand came down and patted Lissa on the head. "My, you’re soaked. Have you been running races?"

"It was a mere bad dream, Your Grace," the maid said stiffly. "Please do not concern yourself."

"You should be in bed," the knight agreed, if more slowly. "Sir Frederick told me you were up for his entire watch last night, praying for the new Sir…gods. I’ve forgotten his name."

"Kell—" Emmeryn began, but faltered. "Kelley? Kjelle? No, that's a girl’s name…"

"As you can see, the lack of sleep is wearing on Your Grace."

"I will take the princess back right away," said the maid. She held out her hands. "Come here, milady."

"No!" Lissa clenched her fists in Emmeryn’s nightgown. She was so close. She had her sister in her hands. No way in That Bad Word She Wasn’t Allowed To Say would they pry her away now.

"She can stay with me," said Emm, so naturally that even though Lissa knew she’d say it, she still gawked up in surprise. "We’ll go back to sleep together."

"Really, milady," the maid began, but Emmeryn gave both women out in the hall a cheerful "Good night!" and shut the door right in their faces.

Lissa’s tears had stopped in the hubbub, but as soon as they were alone and Emm picked her up, they started again. She sobbed.

"It’s all over, Lissa," she murmured. "You’re all right."

"It’s not that."

"Then what is it?"

"I missed you."

"Oh." Emmeryn suddenly sounded a little watery, too. She kissed the top of Lissa’s head several times before moving them both to the washroom. Lissa tried to calm down before she woke up Emm’s handmaid, until she remembered Emm was grown-up enough to send hers away. For the millionth time, she wished she had the same magic powers. That she could just wake up brave and strong and beautiful, and her hair would grow in gentle curls instead of its weird, straw-like swoops, and she would be ladylike and loved instead of a nuisance.

Emmeryn set her down, washed her face with a cold cloth, got her out of her damp nightgown, and put her in one of her own. Lissa giggled and flapped her arms like a bird, since the sleeves went past her fingers and touched the floor. She tried to grab the hem through them so she didn’t trip and followed Emm into bed.

"Maybe we should have more sleepovers," Emm said. "This is nice, isn’t it?"

Lissa snuggled against her. She felt warm and very safe. Not at all like she felt alone, or even with Chrom. Chrom loved her, but he didn’t always like her (and she sure felt the same way). Emmeryn did.

"My hand ladies might not let me come back, though," she realized aloud. "They said you’re the Exalt and I can’t bother you."

"You are my little sister and you are not a bother. The Exalt said so. They can’t say no to that, can they?"

"I guess not." Lissa grinned. "I wish I could make them go away like you did. They’re all so grumpy."

"They just worry for you, with Mother and Father gone and me so busy. Sometimes people get very stern when they worry."

"About what?" she asked. "I’m just fine!"

"You have been crying a lot lately," Emm pointed out. Lissa felt her shoulders hunch up. "Just now, out in the hallway, and when you brought me all those flower crowns, there were salt tracks on your cheeks. How can we not worry?"

"I guess I am kind of being a baby." She started to pout but realized it and sucked her lip back in. "I don’t want to worry anybody. I’ll be…"

There it was. What she needed to do. Maybe it was less of a magical transformation and more of something long and messy, like the soaked butterfly she saw dragging itself out of its casing last week.

"More grown-up," she finished, though she wondered if she could do it.

Emm gave a sleepy hum. "You’ll do splendidly."

Lissa was pretty sure she managed to say "I love you" before she fell asleep, but not entirely sure. She was so tired and felt so much better.

When she woke up in the morning, Emmeryn was already gone. But the covers had been tucked back around her very snugly, so she rolled over in her new cocoon and slept in a little late. Her hand ladies could deal with it. The Exalt had said so. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I love gen. Gen-y gen gen." (But gosh, I need more sister moments. Lissa's in-game reflections on Emmeryn do so much for her character.)


	7. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just the motion of Emmeryn standing cut Frederick off. How was there such presence in someone with such narrow shoulders?
> 
> “You mustn't,” she said in a low voice, “treat me specially because I am the Exalt. Father received all sorts of special treatment, and I wonder if that helped to drive him mad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long it took to write this chapter! It ended a lot differently than I thought it would. 
> 
> In Which dads are discussed. It's a delicate topic for everyone. (Warning for mentioned physical/emotional abuse.)

Frederick was not accustomed to anyone working on the ides of this particular month. The Exalt's birthday had always been a holiday.

But morning found him standing outside the briefing room and awaiting Emmeryn's arrival, as always, lance poised to skewer the ceiling, and he could not say he regretted the change.

She looked the same, that morning. Pale, tired, but utterly at peace. Her hair was neat and her hands steady. It was Phila that looked haggard, which was what made him nervous.

“Good morning, Frederick,” Emmeryn said. She had finally stopped adding that she loved him, now that he finally believed it, but she always said his name, as if to reassure him each day that she wanted to be familiar with him. He wasn't sure how she did it, making one single word feel like a caress. He had no such talent, and ignored her pleasantry.

“How fare you this morning, Your Grace.”

It was hardly even a question. Her smile sweetened but sharpened, like toffee.

“You would ask. I am fine, thank you.”

She entered the meeting room. The door shut behind her. Frederick studied Phila's downcast eyes. She'd celebrated this day several more times than he had.

“You were up late, Captain,” he accused.

“Aye.”

It wasn't difficult to assume what had happened. Phila rigidly set on the edge of the bed with the Exalt's face buried in her shoulder, grieving as she couldn't during the day. Frederick felt a tug that was almost nasty.

“I did not realize someone so small could shed so many tears,” she said. It was an oddly personal admission from the woman he'd come to see as so stoic.

“I wish,” he said, but had no words to finish what he'd started.

“Me too.” Phila took her leave.

xxx

Emmeryn had told him that he was free to enter her rooms at any time, especially with how absentmindedly he'd disrobed her the first day of his guard duty, but he was always too afraid that such a gesture would be untoward regardless. Perhaps they each craved friendship, but the truth was that she was the Exalt and he was a mere citizen of Ylisse. Her name would be written in history books someday, and his would be put only on a gravestone marker and would wear away in a few decades. He had no right to be so familiar with her.

That afternoon he was bold. He knocked gently on her door but opened it before she could tell him to. She was sitting at her dressing table, staring at her face. Any other woman might have looked vain doing so. Not Emmeryn. Her eyes flicked to him in the glass as he entered.

“I think,” he said, “that Your Grace should retire early tonight. Captain Phila and I can prolong this evening's business on your behalf. And I shall bring you tea. It is the powdered green that you drink most often, is it not?”

“Sometimes you are ridiculous, do you know that?” She said it like it was endearing, but he bristled nonetheless. “Today is a day like any other. I would do well to remember that. You mustn't pamper me.”

“But you are the Exalt, and—”

Just the motion of her standing cut him off. What about her slim back made him feel like she could overpower him? How was there such presence in someone with such narrow shoulders?

“You mustn't,” she said in a low voice, “treat me specially because I am the Exalt. He received all sorts of special treatment, and I wonder if eventually he began to believe that he deserved it. I wonder if he began to tell himself that his blood was indeed divine, rather than that of any other man. I wonder if that helped to drive him mad.”

“My lady—”

“No,” she pleaded.

“Emmeryn, then.” He ploughed on as she finally turned to face him. “Please know I do not offer because you are royalty. You have shown me great kindness. I wish to begin repaying it.”

“Kindness is not a debt.”

No one had warned him that she could be so stubborn. It was quite apparent in Chrom and Lissa, but Emmeryn certainly had a wide streak of her own. But then, Frederick had never been particularly malleable either. He began to ungird his sword—a sign that he planned to stay a while, as it would not be polite to wear it in friendly company. She watched as he leaned it by the windowsill.

“I have had almost an entire year to mourn,” she said. “To sort out these feelings. There is no excuse for me to be so lost today.”

“There are still days when I tell myself the same thing.”

“Oh.” Her hands flew to her mouth. “Frederick—”

“The powdered green?” he repeated.

Her hands lowered and clenched crisply in the folds of her phelonion. “Yes. Thank you. Bring two cups.”

xxx

“Why is everyone being so weird today?” Lissa asked.

Chrom glanced over at her, even though he had to crane his neck a little. He was sitting on the lip of one of the garden fountains, legs stretched out before him, her tiny boots discarded even farther away. She sat facing the opposite direction with her bare feet in the water.

“Your handmaids are going to scold you when they see you've gotten all wet,” he said to avoid answering.

“Come on, Chrom.”

He gripped the stone lip, which pushed his shoulders up to his ears. “It's Father's birthday today. Or, at least, it would have been.”

“So everyone's sad? I don't get it. They cried at his funeral already. It's been a whole year almost.”

“You think so?” It was hard for him to believe that Lissa had already gotten over it. But then, she was so young, and she'd hardly known him. The campaign had kept him away for most of her life, and on any return visits to the castle, he didn't pay her any attention. She probably couldn't even remember how much she'd cried about it.

They were silent for a while, save for Lissa occasionally kicking at the water. Chrom drummed his heels into the ground too. Everything felt complicated, like a big knot underneath his ribcage. Was he supposed to be crying? Or letting it go, like Lissa? Was it bad that he couldn't do either?

“What was he like?” she asked suddenly. Birds cheeped. The fountain burbled.

Chrom wanted to tell her about all his memories. Warm fingers on the top of his head, long stories of brave heroes and glorious feats before bed, sitting on a strong knee while courtiers around the throne said big words he didn't understand, treats wrapped in wax paper whenever Father returned from days out in town—separate ones for him and Emmeryn, because their favourite flavours were different, and Father always remembered. He wanted to tell her how his fingers brushed Mother's arm sometime, or even her belly when she was carrying Lissa. There was so much to say about the silly songs he would sing, the ones that made even Emmeryn laugh, because they sounded so funny coming out of an Exalt's mouth. There was how safe he felt being tucked in at night, knowing Father would do anything to protect him.

He opened his mouth but the memories clogged in his throat.

Was it even all right to say good things about someone who had done so much evil? Didn't none of that matter, in the long run, after so many people had suffered?

Maybe it wasn't fair to erase any nice things he'd done, to only paint him in black, to make him a monster instead of a man. But Chrom didn't think it was fair to Ylisse, either, to forget the war for even a moment. Emmeryn had taken him out into the poorer parts of the capital, pointed out the skinny children and the begging women and the young soldiers fighting to walk without a leg or count change without a hand.

“Chrom?” Lissa asked. He shut his mouth and opened it again.

“I don't know. I just don't know. He was a stranger to me.”

She made a rude noise, and he understood. At least he was old enough to have memories of his face, his touch, his voice. At least he knew _something_. But what Lissa couldn't fathom was that knowing more only made him know less. He felt like maybe she was better off remembering nothing at all. Things were simpler that way. And when people looked at Lissa or even Emmeryn, with their blonde curls and and light eyes, they weren't reminded of anybody else. He stood, suddenly feeling itchy.

“Chrom?” she asked again.

“I have to practice.”

“Is this another of those stupid boy things? You hit stuff until you feel better?”

“That's not how it works,” he said before he stomped away. “I hit stuff until I _am_ better.”

At aiming. At striking. At being his own man. At evening Falchion's tally, racking up hundreds of harmless and defensive blows against the hundreds of kills. At stepping out of that dark, dark shadow.

xxx

  
“I worry for Chrom,” Emmeryn said when Frederick returned with tea.

 _I do, too,_ he wanted to say. But instead he just set the tray down on her dressing table and pulled her phelonion off and went to hang it in her wardrobe.

“I know your family has been knights for generations,” she quipped as she poured them each a cup, “but I think you have missed your true calling as a nursemaid.”

“If milady can not take care of herself, someone must do it for her.”

“I can do it.” She joined him in the wardrobe doorway with her shoes and placed them inside. “Look.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

The afternoon found them at the tea table in her receiving chamber, her elegantly poised in the center of her chair's cushion and him stiffly perched on the edge of his. It had taken some coaxing and the memory of his earlier conversation with Phila to keep him from leaving to attend to some duty or other.

“This is why you need to stop treating me like someone so _holy_ ,” she said as she poured their second cups. “I can be so selfish sometimes. This whole day I'd been wallowing in my own feelings, and I completely forgot about you. When was your father's birthday? Did you feel as shaky then as I did this morning?”

In truth, it had been difficult to mourn him. He had been sad, yes. Overwhelmingly so, and frustrated with himself because he knew there was no reason for it. But he shook his head and forced himself to sip his tea.

“You must not concern yourself with it, Your Grace.”

“But the relationship you had with him. I am making a guess, for you've never told me outright, but...I believe it was similar to what I had with my father. Wasn't it?”

“You have my...empathy,” he answered carefully, but she continued,

“Perhaps it was even worse. Father raised his hand to me sometimes, when I angered him, but it was only a threat. He never followed through with the strike. Yours did, didn't he.”

Frederick opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again intending to lie, and found that he couldn’t.

“On occasion,” he admitted. She put down her cup. The sympathy in her eyes was so intense that he felt compelled to add, “It was never bad. I knew a squire who would show up at the ring with bruises, so in comparison—”

“Frederick. How could you even—?”

“Do not look at me like that. I always deserved it.”

“ _Frederick._ ”

He had never heard that tone of voice pass through her pale lips. It was like steel. 

“How did you know?” he ventured quietly, a little afraid of the answer.

“The way you stand without your armour on. Look at you even now. Why won't you sit back in your chair?"

He blinked at the table, startled, and began to lean back, but couldn't manage it. "It isn't good for my posture." 

"Why should I care what your posture looks like? We are friends having tea." 

Because perhaps if he didn't do everything just so, she wouldn't want to be his friend anymore. She would be cold to him. Make him run laps. Worse. He managed to meet her eyes and found the saddest thing of all: that she understood. Her question had been rhetorical. There was a reason she, too, sat so daintily, although she made it look easy. 

"You should try standing with your hands behind your back," she said gently. "It will open up your chest and make you stand taller. It is all right to take up the extra space. You should be proud of who you are." 

“Naga's name, Emmeryn.”

“I like when you call me that instead of Your Grace.”

“Emmeryn.”

“Yes?”

“This is why people call you holy.”

Her eyes hit the table surface hard and her hands found each other. “Please, don't. You have no idea.”

“If you take one mere day to consider your own feelings above everyone else's, it doesn't mean—”

“I was relieved,” she said in a rush. She even blurted gracefully, the words slipping out in a soft, hurried stream of air. “When they brought me the news of his death. What I felt was relief.”

Slowly, afraid that she would stop if he made a sound, Frederick set his teacup down as well.

“It wasn't joy, of course not. He was my father. For all the problems we had, I know that he loved me, in his own way. He had moments of great kindness. He was the one, in fact, who always told me it was not a debt. And you should have seen him with Chrom. No matter how much trouble he caused, as young boys can do, Father was always patient with him. So many people call him evil, truly evil, but if they could have seen him with Chrom...” She sighed, though her face remained as impassive as always. “But the war could have ended years ago if he had only let it. Now thousands of families could be whole again, I thought, once the soldiers all return. Now people can stop suffering. Now I will no longer have to worry about the tone of voice I use or how loudly I walk or how much I look like my mother. And...I thought of Lissa.” She was spinning her teacup in its saucer now, hardly moving the liquid, and he watched the porcelain move between her long fingers. “He wouldn't even acknowledge her existence, because she didn't have the brand.”

“So it's true.” He'd heard the rumours, but had put no stock into them. Perhaps her hair was curlier and her eyes were a different colour, but Lissa's ears were undoubtedly the same as her sister's. He'd had to re-brush her impossibly tangle-prone hair before her handmaids found it too many times not to notice.

“Yes, it's true. I cannot say whether my mother was unfaithful, although I doubt she would do such a thing, no matter how often Father was gone or what atrocities he committed while he was away. He was furious when we could not find it on Lissa. And if he would raise his hand to me, his true-born daughter...perhaps for Lissa it would not be a mere threat. When they brought me Falchion and your father's shield, one of my first thoughts was that she was safe from him. I only mourned and considered the throne afterward.” She swallowed hard. “I thought that I was a loving and obedient daughter, but I have been tried by fire. I only remember the bad things about people, and I hate them for things they have never done. I am untrusting. Ungrateful. Cold. Unfit to be part of a family.”

“Your Grace,” Frederick said in the same sharp tone she had given to him. Her reply was a weak smile.

He knew all her thoughts deeply, intimately, without her having to speak a word. She wanted to hate the Exalt but couldn't, wanted to love him but couldn't, and because of it couldn't manage to even hate or love herself, whichever she believed she deserved. She had no catharsis for his death and would never receive it. And it hurt. Ached like bruised bone, lingering months after the bruises on the skin had gone.  

"I assure you," he murmured, "I completely understand. No one understands better than I." 

She smiled again. Still weak and sad, but there was something conspiratorial to it now. Something genuine.  

They picked up their cups again. The topic was changed to the new curtains being hung in the ballroom. Eventually Frederick stood and excused himself. Silently, they had come to the mutual agreement that she needed to sleep and he needed to train.

xxx

To his surprise, Chrom was already there in the ring. Trying to heft that ancient sword though it was nearly his height, weakly hacking at a wooden target. He saw himself in every bead of sweat, the pull of every muscle. Maybe this would be the strike that was better than his father could do it. Maybe this was the time he could make him proud. Maybe this time he could at least be proud of himself. Maybe this time.

He was still trying, even after the man was long dead.

“This is not the sword you should be using, sire,” he said. Chrom stopped and looked over at him, breathing too hard to appear appropriately guilty.

“I know it's...too big still, but...maybe if I start early...”

“Your grip has slipped.” Frederick crossed the ring and let his hand hover over Chrom's knuckles, waiting for permission to touch the sacred blade. When Chrom nodded he re-positioned his hands for him, lifted his right elbow, lightly kicked his ankle to make him think about the balance of his stance. “There.”

“Frederick, I know I'm still not ready yet, but...I felt like I just had to try. I felt—”

“I know, sire. I promise.”

The weight was finally too much for his small arms. Chrom lowered them. 

"Hey Frederick," he said. "What can you tell me about him?"

"That he was complicated." 

"I already know that." 

"I think," he ventured, "that he would not want you fretting like this. I think he would want you at peace, today, milord." 

Chrom was silent. He stared at the sword's point. 

"If nothing else, it's what I want for you," said Frederick. 

Chrom considered it. Smiled slightly. Jammed Falchion into the dirt. 

"Okay. Let's go see what everyone in the barracks are up to," he said, and ran off, leaving Frederick gaping. 

"Sire! Wait! You can't leave _the_ Falchion here like this! _Sire!_ " 

xxx

Emmeryn watched the blade sink into the ground from stories above, brand pressed against the glass, and breathed a sigh of relief.

xxx

“Unladylike!” Lissa's handmaiden scolded as she tied her boots back on. The princess just put her hands on her hips.

“I want to play with Emmeryn.”

“The Exalt has taken the rest of the day off, milady. She must relax.”

“Exactly,” said Lissa.

xxx

Evening found Lissa and Emmeryn on the Exalt's bed, the former with her chin dreamily in her hands and the latter weaving colourful memories of their mother.

It found Chrom and Frederick in the barracks, sitting around a table with cider and listening to one of the knights tell a fantastical story about Marth, the Hero-King. One of the men raised Chrom's hand for him when Marth saved the day from the evil dragon, and all the soldiers cheered.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Especially with these bigger chapters where I can easily bleed into terrible writing (if I'm not always there already), feedback is always appreciated (especially stylistic critique, but anything is great!). 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone reading for your interest! The next chapter is all Fred's PoV.


	8. House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lissa must be so lonely,” Emmeryn lamented one night over late tea. It was her first free moment and long after her sister's bedtime. Frederick's new quest was immediately clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was legit just supposed to be 1000 words or less about why Frederick of all characters has his hair in his face, but then it turned into over seven pages about Lissa and her troubled childhood. I'm rolling with it.

Lissa was misbehaving, lately.

She had always been a troublesome child, but it was because of her eagerness to do and see and interact with the people she loved. She spilled drinks she was excited to taste, dropped dolls she was excited to play with, tracked mud and shrieked with laughter and once fell out of a tree and gave her siblings quite the scare.

Now it was different. She threw fits when she didn't get her way, and objects when the fits didn't work. She refused to go to sleep. She constantly demanded Chrom and Emmeryn, but of course, the former was always out trailing the soldiers on patrol and the latter was completely inaccessible.

Frederick felt for little Lissa. He knew what it was like to spend those years without a mother, without siblings, without friends. Instead of his father's disapproving gaze she had that of nearly a dozen handmaidens, all certainly kinder but not any less expectant. In some ways, he thought as he watched her try to kick off the pointed, pinched shoes they'd buckled on her that morning, maybe her trials were harder than his. Combat made sense to him. Muscle built easily on his frame, skinny though he was. He was very comfortable riding horses. In every aspect, he was made to be a knight.

Lissa was not made to be a demure, idle princess.

“She must be so lonely,” Emmeryn lamented one night over late tea. It was her first free moment and long after her sister's bedtime. Frederick's new quest was immediately clear.

xxx

From the next morning onward, he devoted extra attention to Lissa. He was accustomed to accepting her flower crowns in the late afternoons, with the occasional mid-morning tea party when he wasn't assigned to be guarding outside of Emmeryn's meetings, but now he made sure to drop in every time he passed her door. She was usually shouting and giving the handmaidens a hard time about something or other. Sometimes he had to use a stern voice, and sometimes he had to use his strength to just pick her up and dump her wherever the maids needed her, but first he always did his best to calm her down and distract her: “What if we pretend to be mermaids, milady, and you can spit the water into the sink after your teeth are clean? What if you do wear your coat like the nice lady is asking you to, because it is magic and will make you invisible?”

In no time at all, Lissa was equating his presence to law, order, and some fun new game, and the hand maidens were equating it to a moment they could use to step outside, rearrange their wayward hair, and breathe.

“Let's play House!” Lissa blurted the next time he caught her about to hurl her hairbrush at the mirror. The maid on duty covered her face in relief. She had not been willing to grab the princess's wrist, it seemed. Frederick did it, albeit gently, and Lissa released the brush for him.

“All right. How does one play?”

“You be Father and I'll be Mother. And this can be Baby!”

She pulled a stuffed bear off her bed. Frederick grimaced and set it back by her pillow.

“I don't much like bears, as you are well aware.”

“Okay, fine. I can be Baby and you can be Father.”

“Well.” Frederick sat back on his heels, unable to take even the silly game in stride. She was eye-level with him now and studied him accordingly. How could he explain to her, of all people, that he had no example? No precedent? Softly, he confided,

“I do not think I could be a good father.”

“Sure you could! You'd be great!” Lissa said, but paused. “I think. What do good fathers do?”

“Love their children,” he answered, perhaps too fiercely.

“You can do that, right? Don't you love me?”

He pulled her right into his arms, and she coughed because he squeezed too tightly, but in that moment he was too afraid to let her go. He wasn't sure what would happen to her, if he did. He wasn't sure what would happen to himself.

“I love you very, very, very much.”

“That's nice,” she wheezed. “But maybe you should be Brother next time. At least when Chrom hugs me I can breathe.”

“Yes, milady.”

xxx

The problem with this quest, Frederick soon realized, was that it had no end. He could not spend all his time with Lissa. His duties as one of the Royal Guard were already quite substantial, and he had to make time for Chrom and Emmeryn as well. While he could perhaps quell Lissa's behaviour, just as her siblings could during the rare moments when they were united, it was only a temporary fix. Her frustrations were permanent.

He was starting to fall behind on his personal life, as well. He hadn't dusted his room in three entire days, and he didn't even want to think about how much clean laundry he had left (none whatsoever, and it was making his heart beat too fast). His need for a haircut snuck up on him, too. He'd always kept it very short, for practicality's sake, but now he could see that it was extremely unruly and even started to curl, the longer it grew.

Before he knew it he'd acquired the habit of tossing his fringe out of his eyes with a flick of his head. He didn't even realize he was doing it until Emmeryn laughed and pointed it out, while he accompanied her on a walk through the gardens and the wind kept blowing it into his face.

"Your hair has gotten long."

"I'm cutting it all off again tomorrow," he insisted. "As soon as I find a spare moment. I can't stand it in my eyes like this."

"Oh, really? But it looks rather handsome!"

"And very impractical."

"Just trim it?"

"What if an assassin makes his move and I do not spot him, because Her Grace asked me to only trim it?'"

"That is ridiculous and you know it."

Frederick only sighed. Emmeryn had such a way of taking his anxieties and showing him that they were small, trifling things.

"I prefer it short," he finally said.

"Well, if you prefer it." And that was the end of that.

xxx

At least until that night, when Lissa threw another tantrum. Frederick could hear her through the door when he passed by to check on her before he returned to the barracks for the night. A polite knock revealed an extremely frazzled handmaid and a Lissa with only one arm through her nightgown, yanking the sheets off her bed.

"No bedtime!" she screamed. "I won't go!"

"Please take a moment for yourself," Frederick told the maid, and she hurried out with a word of thanks. He'd done this enough times for them to recognize an expert when they saw one. He entered the room in her place and only realized what a mess he'd gotten into when he saw the state of Lissa's un-brushed hair.

"I'm too young for this," he sighed.

"Freddy!" She looked a little guilty but pressed on with her usual bravado: "They tried to make me go to bed. But they can't because I'm the princess, right? Don't make me go to bed!"

"I shan't make you go to bed. I just want you to put your nightgown on correctly, before you catch a chill."

Taking things step by step usually helped, and talking to Lissa like an adult was even better. She grudgingly allowed him to maneuver her right arm into her right sleeve.

"There," he said. "Is that not more comfortable?"

"Can we play horses?" she asked instead of answering. He thought fast:

"Yes. How about you be the horse, this time. Here, I'll brush your mane."

Just a few minutes later, he was on the edge of her bed with her settled in his lap and had gotten half the tangles out already.

"I want to brush your mane next," she demanded.

"Whatever my princess desires."

"How come I have to go to bed if I'm the princess? Emmeryn and Chrom don't have to go to bed."

"They most certainly do."

"I never see it!"

"The youngest have to sleep first, of course. You need the most sleep.”

“Do not!”

New tactic: “You're safe from all the monsters in the darkness when you're asleep."

"If I see a monster, I'll hit it! With an axe!"

"That's not very nice," he chided, but he let it go since he'd reached the ends of her hair. The second he got it all braided nicely for bed, she snatched the brush out of his hand and wiggled off him. He closed his eyes in a small wince and waited for her merciless attack on his tangles, but the brush stroke never came. Instead, little fingers wove through his new curls surprisingly gently.

"Freddy grew long hair!" she cooed.

"Say goodbye to it, milady. I'm cutting it tomorrow."

"No," she wailed as she messed it all up with her hands. "It's so soft!"

"But it gets in my eyes."

She marched into his field of vision. "Sir Frederick! I am the princess and I order you to keep it long!"

Her little hands sat petulantly on her little hips like a little adult, blue eyes blazing, forehead and shoulders so unmarked and so unlike her siblings'. Lissa had him completely wrapped around her finger and she knew it. He melted. There was no other word for it.

"Ah, milady. Anything for you."

She cheered and jumped into his arms to rub the top of his head again, and he kept his face carefully stern.

"But no royal order will get you out of bedtime, young miss!"  
  
Five minutes later she was tucked in with that absurd stuffed bear and the candle was blown out. Frederick shut the door behind him like he might awaken a sleeping dragon if he made any noise. The handmaid, waiting in the hallway, scurried right over to him.

“She'll be asleep soon,” he reassured her.

“How do you get her to mind you?” the woman half demanded.

"I have to be impudent. Right now, even if she's our princess, we know what's better for her. We have to be firm in that.” He paused before he added, “Or pretend to be horses."

"You are something else, Sir Frederick."

She was giving him an odd look, all tilted head and heavy eyelids. He cleared his throat nervously and left. What had he said that was so strange? 

xxx

“You must be growing quite popular with Hilda and Sara and the rest,” Emmeryn told him outside her door the next night, as he prepared to stand guard. Leave it to her, he thought, to know the names of all those maids. He only knew “Sara” and wasn't even sure which one she was. 

“I suppose it is only natural. Lissa listens to me as much as she would listen to you or Chrom, so it makes their jobs easier.”

“That isn't what I meant.”

That only confused him. “So what do you mean, Your Grace?”

“You're very funny, Frederick.” She smiled gently and opened the door. He stared at it, still confused, long after it was shut.

xxx

One night Emmeryn had the time to join him in his quest. A handmaid had to coerce Lissa for hours to get her hair brushed before bed (sometimes with no success), and Frederick usually had to barter at least a little. This time Lissa grabbed the brush herself and ran to Emmeryn with an ecstatic squeal.

“Emmy, you're here! Please brush my hair!”

Emmeryn, of course, was quick to oblige, sitting on the bed and scooping Lissa into her lap. To keep her from wiggling, Frederick brought over a very sick doll that needed to be healed immediately with Lissa's magic powers. The princess seemed utterly delighted between his attention and Emmeryn's fingers in her tresses. She didn't complain or try to escape a single time, and when they told her it was time for bed, she nodded eagerly and dove beneath the covers, even though it was clear that she had too much energy still to truly settle down.

The maid took over. Emmeryn kissed Lissa's forehead, Frederick blew out the candle, and the door was shut behind them when they left.

“Playmates,” Emmeryn mused softly as he walked her back to her room. “Perhaps that's the answer. Look how she craved us, and we just aren't enough for her. People her own age will be even better.”

“How shall you accomplish it, milady?”

“Oh, it won't be hard in the slightest.”

xxx

By the next week, court had expanded. Not a single noble family living at court had a daughter precisely Lissa's age, but there were a large handful throughout Ylisse, and Emmeryn invited all of them to move in if they so desired. Needless to say, the majority of the mothers took their daughters and accepted at once, leaving their lords to govern their houses as they sought greater influence in Ylisstol. There were extravagant tea parties thrown, little balls, picnics out in the garden. Lissa, with her big smile and willingness to play any game, got along splendidly with all the girls--even the one with the golden ringlets, who was spoilt, petulant, persnickety, and seemed to have a hard time playing with the others for even two minutes. In fact, Lissa seemed to get along with that one the best. In no time they were attached at the hip, always giggling over one thing or another.

It was not affecting any of Lissa's other friendships, and yet...

“I fear the influence of her new best friend,” he confided to Emmeryn as he helped her ready for bed. She tried to turn down her bedsheets; he made a swatting motion with his hand and did it himself.

“Maribelle?” There she went with her impeccable knowledge of names again as she climbed into bed. “Why is that?”

He went to her closet to lay out clothes for the next day. “She seems to be a disagreeable child, and none of the other girls can stand her. What if her behaviour rubs off on Lissa?”

“It doesn't seem likely. Besides, if the other girls don't like her, isn't that all the more reason for Lissa to be sweet to her? I'm very proud.” Emmeryn made the same swatting motion at him as he returned to try to tuck her bedsheets in securely. He retreated, protesting,

“There must be a _reason_ that she doesn't have a single other friend.”

Emmeryn arched a thin eyebrow and picked up the book on her nightstand. It was a heavy tome about the theology of marriage as a religious institution, but she pulled a bedtime story out of it: “Once upon a time there was a very kind and capable young knight who ate all his meals alone because his only friend was his horse.”

“Bah! Fine, my lady. Fine.”

She was right, as always.

xxx

The very next day, Frederick ran into the two. They were skipping arm-in-arm in the direction of the gardens, Lissa in a dirt-flecked white frock and Maribelle in an impeccable pink apron. They had nearly frolicked away when Lissa caught sight of him and waved him over: 

“Halloo! Come meet my new friend!”

He came, stopped, bowed. The new acquaintance looked up at him cautiously through her fringe, shifting to hide behind Lissa a little.

“Freddy, this is Maribelle. She's very smart and gives good hugs.”

“A pleasure, milady.” He took her hand to kiss it and she snatched it right back.

“You should be kissing Lissa's hand first,” she downright scolded in a very high voice. “How rude!”

“Oh, Maribelle, I asked him to stop all that. This is Frederick! He's my...” Lissa cast about. “Knight-friend. Knight-brother. Knight-nanny.”

“Nanny?” he repeated, eyebrows lowering, but Maribelle lowered too, into a delicate curtsey.

“A pleasure to meet you, Sir Frederick.” She floundered like Lissa had, this time for a compliment like a proper noblewoman would give at an introduction, and even Frederick could tell from her hesitance that she was an awkward girl. “You, er, have very lovely hair.”

Lissa grinned at him: _told you so_. He sighed, decided he'd had quite enough nonsense for one day, and left to complain to Emmeryn. (Nanny! Honestly!)

“But it's true,” the Exalt giggled once he'd found her, en route to her next meeting. As they walked, heedless of Phila's raised eyebrow, she reached up and touched the top of his head. “All of it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: In Which Everyone In The Castle Figures It Out But Fred and Emmeryn. This chapter also explains why I personally can't ship Fred/Lissa. The family feels are too stronk. Uhg family feels please come into my arms.
> 
> That book about the theology of marriage may or may not be important. Seems like something a 16-year-old Exalt would be reading.


	9. Growing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all made Chrom a little nervous. Would he end up very tall, like Father? What if he started liking girls like the clerics said he would? Ew. He wasn't ready for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 123098420398 in the series "I Have Too Much Headcanon About These Characters": with the power of Marth!genetics, Chrom hit puberty super early. So that he could be our Manly, Manly Prince super early.

Chrom stared at himself in the mirror.

He didn't feel too different—not on the inside. The outside was the strange part. He'd only been eleven for a few months, and in that time, he'd shot up like a weed. At the moment he was being refitted for an entirely new wardrobe, since almost nothing fit him anymore.

Now he had spots on his face, which Emmeryn made him scrub twice a day, and he was getting hesitant to talk because every time he opened his mouth his voice would crack. The first few times it happened, Emmeryn shook her head hard and insisted it was too early, he was too young and small and sweet still. But now she paid it no heed, and instead Lissa had started making fun of him.

It all made him a little nervous. Would he end up very tall, like Father? Did he _want_ to be like Father? What if he started liking girls like the clerics said he would? Girls were gross. Like Lissa and her friend Maribelle, always picking flowers and squeaking about stuffed animals. Ew. He wasn't ready for this.

But now he was almost big enough to handle Falchion, he reminded himself as he fidgeted on the wooden block. And when he turned twelve, he could join the Shepherds, which was an idea Emmeryn was toying with. Taking talented youths and using their knighthood training as a way to defend people, in out-of-the-way places where Ylissean soldiers weren't usually stationed, seemed like a great idea to Chrom. He couldn't wait to prove himself talented and to go help others. That was what the sword was for. That was how he could undo everything Father had done.

The seamstress holding out his arm scolded him softly for his movements. He tried to hold still and immediately every part of his body started itching. She swatted him lightly with her measuring tape and moved down to figure out what to do about his hem.

“You're just going to grow out of this in three weeks anyway,” she muttered.

“I'm sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I think I'd still like to be tall, though. I've decided.”

“You're off to the right start, then, my prince. Now please hold extra still. I have to start using the needle again. We do not want a repeat of the last three times.”

Chrom nodded and she went to work at the bottom of his pants. He examined the background through the mirror for lack of anything else to do: just his room, coverlet and carpet in blue (his favourite), wooden swords and horses and soldiers littering the floor. Frederick hovered, since Emmeryn was in a meeting and Lissa was having a tea party with Maribelle and Chrom wasn't sure if Frederick knew what else to do with himself. He wondered when Frederick had started growing into manhood and if anyone had ever laughed at _his_ voice.

“Why can't I have two sleeves, again?” he asked to keep himself from fidgeting more. His right arm felt cold. He'd never seen anyone else in a one-armed tunic.

“Exalt's orders, milord,” said the seamstress.

“Does your lady sister ever cover her brow?” Frederick asked. “The Exalted symbol is the sign of Naga's blessing, and means hope for Ylisse. You should never hide it. Your people will be glad to look upon it.”

Well, if it made people glad, that was probably reason enough. Even if it did feel weird. Chrom made a noncommittal noise. “Lissa's lucky, then.”

In the mirror, he saw the seamstress and Frederick exchange an odd look. He shifted his weight, unable to stand the stillness any longer. There was a sharp prick at his ankle.

“Ow! Again!”

“If you would only stop moving, milord!”

“Please.” Frederick was there in an instant, plucking the needle from the seamstress's hand. He settled on one knee as she had and went back to work at Chrom's hem. He didn't seem to be moving any faster than she was, but he didn't seem any worse, either. Chrom relaxed a little. Frederick would never poke him, even accidentally.

“They should make you head steward, Sir Frederick,” the seamstress said icily.

“I don't deserve the honour,” he replied in the same tone. “I am but a mere royal knight.”

“So where'd you learn to do this?” Chrom asked.

“My mother. I hold her lessons very dear.”

Chrom frowned and stared back into the mirror again. He didn't think he had anything from his mother. He could remember some: a sweet lullaby voice and golden hair and the smell of lilacs. But what had he learned from her? What would he take with him? He was all dark hair and blue eyes and a sharp jaw. The black sheep to his sisters. The man of the house.

“Do you think Emmeryn will finalize the Shepherds idea today?” he asked.

“I certainly hope not. Or if she does, she raises the starting age.”

“But that ruins the point of doing even your training for the good of others!” Chrom argued.

“I will not tolerate milord seeing the sure-death of battle at twelve years old.”

“But I'm almost there!” His voice cracked and his mouth snapped shut again.

“You are hardly eleven, with all due respect. There is plenty of time to think about this.”

Frederick finished one last stitch and handed the needle back to the seamstress. Chrom scowled at the mirror again. Well, the clerics said he'd started the journey to manhood early. Maybe by twelve he'd be as tall as Frederick! And Lissa would stop teasing him. They'd let him see battle _then_.

He was starting to think that he'd really like to stop being the prince and just start being Chrom, whoever Chrom was.

Whoever Chrom could be, when he was finished growing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay but tiny!Chrom with acne though. (But let's be real. Prince Charming went through puberty gracefully thanks to Husbando Magic and all the zits were gone by the time he was 14, who are we kidding.)


	10. Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In her light, soft voice, Emmeryn said a word so foul that it wiped Frederick's mind blank. He knew knights who would challenge duels over it. For a moment he could only stand there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People have been so, so sweet about this fic. I get such lovely long reviews and comments, and I want to thank you all so much for that. They brighten my day more than you could know. But it also makes me very anxious each time I post a new chapter because I started this fic intending to be very casual with it, and now there are a lot of people I don't want to let down because they've been enjoying it. But the chapter ideas and plots aren't things I ever really took seriously and only wrote down because they tickled my fancy or were self-indulgent. (I'm really self-indulgent with this fic, haha.) So I'm really sorry if the quality isn't up to par.

The reigning Feroxi Khan made his first visit when Emmeryn was sixteen.

He was the tallest man she'd ever met, with dark skin and a thick mane of hair. While his face was clear, despite the lines of advanced middle age, his shirt had been cut to expose as much of his heavily scarred chest as possible, like he bore the raised lines as jewellery. He ignored Emmeryn entirely and greeted her advisors instead.

“She is only a figurehead, isn't she?” he asked when they pointed out his lack of manners. “Shouldn't I pay my respects to the true lawmakers, first?”

“Exalt Emmeryn has a hand in making all of our laws.”

He clasped her arm then, but seemed amused.

They threw a banquet for him that night—not in the great hall but in the dining hall, a room much smaller and fancier and more intimate. The butlers were barely able to arrange enough tables and chairs to fit the Khan's entire retinue, fierce-looking men and women who included his guards and advisors and champions and close friends, but it was finally managed, because her own Ylissean retinue wanted to demonstrate the finery. The linen tablecloths, the imported Chon'sin crockery, the pure silver spoons: all proof that Ylisse was recovering from the war. A guest of Ylisse would want for nothing, and peace would be ensured. At least, Emmeryn hoped it would be so.

Before the food was served, most people milled about the parlour, a room draped with tapestries and carpets in rich colours like wine and deep brown. Emmeryn hoped for mingling, but most Ylisseans stayed with Ylisseans, and the reverse.

As she tried to push her way into groups of Feroxi and clasp their arms, as was their custom, she was usually laughed at. This happened thrice before a woman in furs grabbed her hand back and instructed,

“Your grip is too light. You must do it very firmly, or you will seem weak.”

Emmeryn could only blink back at her. “But there is nothing weak about gentleness.”

Once again, she was laughed at. She excused herself with a smile, but once she was in the privy she didn't have to use, she simply leaned against the door and worried her lip between her teeth. Had she just committed her first political faux pas? Had she offended one of her guests with her words? It seemed so.

Still, what she had said was something she believed in her core. Gentleness was a great strength. True peace could only occur once everyone learned to turn the other cheek, to treat each other with tenderness, to show their weaknesses alongside their strengths so that all could work together. Could she back down from that? And if she didn't and it meant being unyielding toward another culture—another culture of _Naga's people_ , whom She loved just as surely as she loved Her Ylisseans—Emmeryn must surely be doing something wrong, mustn't she?

She took a deep breath and left with new resolve, only to find herself facing the Khan himself, talking about her in her absence to a gaggle of friends:

“And what sort of a name is Emmeryn? It feels like it might knock over if you merely whispered it. What were her parents thinking? Didn't they want to give her a good, strong name? Didn't they want anyone to take her seriously?”

“Well, you know Ylissean women. They're all raised to be--”

Emmeryn had never heard the word that followed. It didn't sound like something pleasant. It also wasn't pleasant how the Khan threw back his head and laughed at it.

But she heard the word several times over the next hour as she continued trying to join conversations, and not always about her, either. She heard several new words, in fact, some of which elicited giggles and some of which made the women swat the men or vice-versa. It occurred to Emmeryn, then, that this was the first time she had ever been in such mixed company. The Feroxi government had no real nobility, and its classes reflected that. The Khan’s retinue came from all over: the extremely large middle class, children of rich parents, street urchins who had joined the army and made a good life for themselves. She had much to learn, and was suddenly embarrassed to be so sheltered. To think, there was an entire language her people were speaking, outside of her castle and her court, and she couldn’t understand it.

By the time everyone was ushered into the dining room, Emmeryn was in a foul mood. She felt as self-conscious as her first day on the throne again. And though she resolved to talk as much as possible to the Khan seated on her right, to maybe spark a friendship, he hardly paid her any attention. If he had business to speak of, he spoke to her advisors—most of whom were men—and more often than business, he just wanted to discuss that barbaric Feroxi tradition of fighting for the throne, and the rival giving him a run for it. Emmeryn heard the name “Basilio” so many times she was sure she'd never forget it, and by the main course she was privately rooting for him, whoever he was.

She finally lost her patience when the Khan asked her military advisor a question about the economy. It made so little sense that she put her fork down.

“I can answer that for you, instead.” she said. Snark escaped, Naga forgive her: “I happen to know my own country very well.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You speak very well for someone so young.”

“I am not a toddler. I am sixteen.”

She expected him to become appropriately contrite. Instead, most everyone at the table laughed. Even some of her advisors.

“And Ylisse does have our pity and our support for it,” he said. “A child ruler is not an easy thing, even if she's pretty. The Feroxi can outdo this folly with our championships.”

She refused to be goaded. He was pushing her, she knew, searching for weakness. Perhaps even searching for a foothold in Ylisse. “Please allow me to answer your question about our economy.”

“So you want a job to do, is that it? Instead of quietly eating dinner as a child should? I could find you a job.”

There was something very odd in his smirk. The two Feroxi on his right, the only ones close enough to hear, howled with laughter. She looked to the military advisor on her left, confused. His lips were a thin line and his eyebrows drew together, but whatever he was thinking, he did not speak aloud. Something in his gaze was enough to quiet their guests.

“You can't possibly be insulted,” the Khan said to him. “She didn't even understand. No harm done. Now answer my question, or point me to someone who can.”

The economic advisor finally spoke up. Emmeryn returned to her plate, cheeks burning. She did not often blush and the sensation was more painful than she remembered. What had just happened? Why did she feel so foolish?

It was not good or holy to stand up and shout or make a scene. She would be remembered for those outbursts, seen as all the more childish for them. Instead she had to keep calm. She had to learn. She tuned out the conversation and tried to decide who her teacher should be.

Not any of the advisors. If they were not willing to bring the Khan's meaning to light, it was probably something too dirty to talk about, and they would be too embarrassed to explain it properly. Besides, it was now clear that some of them agreed with him about her youth and inexperience. She supposed she couldn't blame them. Ending a war was one thing she had done successfully, but stabilizing Ylisse's battle-wrecked economy was something much more difficult and something she still had not managed to fully accomplish.

Phila was the clear best choice, but Emmeryn wondered if she would even know all the words she'd heard that night, many of which seemed very distinctly masculine. She was a solider, yes, clever and tough, but she commanded an all-woman unit. Her lexicon of slang and swears was almost assuredly different. But most of all, if Phila asked where Emmeryn had suddenly learned all these things, she could not lie about it. Not to such a dear friend. And Phila would be wroth. The captain of the pegasus brigade would not allow such a thing to go unpunished, she was sure, and she didn't want to cause a scene.

That left Frederick. He fought with a mixed company, slept in a mixed barrack. Knights were a peculiar caste, comprised of everyone from well-bred second sons of noblemen to uneducated country folk who dreamt of status and victory. If they could fight well and obey the laws of chivalry, they were accepted. And while Frederick might get as upset as Phila, he did not have a high enough rank to get involved. He would be the ideal person to ask...that is, if he weren't so innocent and bashful.

But then, Emmeryn thought, biting back a smile as dessert came, maybe that was the bright side. If the lesson had to be painful and the conversation had to be awkward, could it not also be entertaining?

xXx

The day was bright but unseasonably cold, even for winter. Frederick doubted Emmeryn was comfortable, being so thin, so he took it upon himself to bring hot tea up, mid-morning. Since she was entertaining guests for the week and they would be allowed to sleep long, she was probably up and with nothing to do.

She looked especially pleased to see him, that day. She was curled up in an armchair close to the hearth. Though her hair was neatly brushed and set, she hadn't dressed yet, obviously opting to stay in her warm robe as long as possible, and Frederick wondered what she was wearing underneath it. He also wondered if that was a scandalous thought to have, if he hoped the answer was “a great deal.” He didn't want her to be cold.

“We're friends, aren't we?” she asked. He handed her the cup in response, making sure she'd tugged her sleeves down to cover her palms so she didn't scald herself. “I mean, very good friends?”

“I would be honoured if Your Grace merely entertained the thought of it, let alone deemed it so.”

“The sort of friends who can tell each other anything?”

He paused, but only because her question deserved his full consideration. “Yes, I believe so.”

In her light, soft voice, she said a word so foul that it wiped Frederick's mind blank. He knew knights who would challenge duels over it. For a moment he could only stand there.

"Can you tell me what that means, Frederick? It's important."

"Exalt Emmeryn, where did you hear such a thing?"

"I asked first. Do you know what it means?"

"I am ashamed that you'd think I might."

"Is that a yes or a no? You've lived and trained amongst so many sorts, so I'm sure you've picked up quite a bit."

She looked as detached as always, but Frederick heard the excitement in her voice. Carefully, he admitted,

"I do know."

"Will you please explain it to me?"

"My lady, it's crass."

"I assumed so. I still wish to know. What if I were called such a thing?"

"That shall never come to pass," he said immediately. She only lifted an amused eyebrow.

"No ruler has the complete approval of every single civilian. I am sure it has already been said. And I will not permit you to plead ignorance for the sake of my feelings. So please tell me. Must I ask again?"

Frederick hesitated. He'd never even said the word aloud. It was an insult specifically for a woman, all blunt vowels and harsh consonants. It felt disrespectful simply to lean over and whisper the meaning into her ear, especially once he saw her eyes widen, but she did not seem offended.

"That does explain a lot. I had never thought of us that way."

"And you should never," he insisted, ears burning. "Your Grace, I must ask again where you heard such a thing."

"It has come to my attention that I keep and always have kept a very specific company, and they speak a certain way. But it's not the way all my people speak, and the low born are no less important than the rest of us. So I should learn to speak comfortably with them, should I not?"

Frederick didn't have an answer for her.

“Would you like to take a seat?”

That meant she had more questions. He nodded and mentally girded himself as he did the physical opposite with his sword belt, knowing it was rude to keep the weapon on his hip if his visit had turned friendly.

"So what is a job?" she asked.  
  
 His hand slipped and the belt--sword, sheath, and all--clattered to the floor.

"Work to do," he answered smoothly.

"Frederick."

"Gods, Emmeryn, why do you want to know?"

"One can never know too much. I am a grown woman and I must not remain as naïve as I was in my girlhood."

He hesitated again. "It's when...well, if one were to..."

He couldn't do it. It was too inappropriate. She was the Exalt and he was her retainer and there was no need for any of this unless it involved ten years and her future noble husband. But now she was looking at him and it sparked that odd tugging in his stomach, and it tugged him right down to cup his hands around her ear and mumble the explanation she'd asked for. He was bright red when he finished, his own ears burning, but she was as pale as ever.

"See?" she asked him. "That is useful. I doubt that is something I could ever learn on my own, just from context in a conversation. Phila has told me that I am never to get on my knees before anyone."

"Lovely weather we're having, out this window." He scrambled to it, behind the back of her chair and out of sight, and gripped the cold sill tightly. It didn't make him any safer.

"And kissing like the Valmese?" she asked. He leaned his head back and resigned himself to the trial ahead.

"Using the tongue."

"Lovemaking like the Feroxi?"

"Three in the same bed."

"The number before seventy?"

There was something too silvery to her voice. It made him raise an eyebrow.

"You're enjoying this," he accused.

"It is entertaining to break down your defenses. Normally it is ever so difficult." Her head peeked out from around the back of her chair, smiling a little. “You won't be cross with me, will you, Frederick?”

“Never. But why me?” Emmeryn seemed to be done flustering him for the moment, so he slowly crossed to the chair facing hers and sank onto the edge of its seat. “This does not seem like the sort of conversation a man and a woman should be sharing so casually.”

“Why not?”

“It's improper. Thoughts may go astray.”

“Have they?”

“Of course not!”

“Then what is the problem? Besides, what if I only had such thoughts about other women, or you only had them about other men? Or what if we had a very strong friendship—the sort where we could tell each other anything?” Her green eyes were fixed on him now, the echo of her first words very clear. “What if I asked you because I feel safe with you? Are you telling me we must not trust each other because of the shapes our bodies took when we were born?”

Frederick didn't have an answer for that, at least not one outside a general cloud of unease and an extreme thrill of warmth up his sternum, neither of which were a logical argument. He pressed his lips together and changed tracks: “Are you aware, milady, that you have a habit of dodging questions by asking new questions back?”

“It's a very old philosophical method. Only by asking questions may we obtain the truth.” She took a sip of tea and her smile over the rim of her cup was pleased with herself. She looked very comfortable curled in her chair, and whatever secrets she had, she obviously wasn't giving them up. It made Frederick realize how he was perched, with his spine ramrod straight. He forced himself to shift, letting his back rest against the back of the chair, crossing his right knee over his left ankle, taking up space.

“You think yourself very clever,” he said with the slightest smirk, but his words made hers fade off her face.

“Not yet,” she sighed. “Not quite yet.”

xXx

The next dinner was a little easier, at first.

The Khan was a little more tactful, after offending her military advisor the night before, and kept away from both crude jokes and business until coffee and brandy were served after dinner. All but his and her inner circles were gone by then, and the rest relocated to a more intimate parlour, to which the dining room was practically an antechamber.

“I hope you will address your questions to me tonight,” Emmeryn said to him, as demurely as possible. She'd set the room so their chairs faced each other, to make that easier. He just raised an eyebrow at her.

“And I thought I made my feelings on the subject clear last night.”

“Last night you disrespected me in front of a room full of people.”

“You need to understand. A woman can do whatever she likes. A girl should watch, learn, and keep quiet.”

“Then a girl also should not be the subject of lewd jokes.”

“Ylisseans.” The Khan leaned forward and pointed to her like she was something particularly interesting to show off to his friends. “Many Feroxi worship Naga as you do, but they knew better. Those things are natural. Those are things you _have_ to do if you want children, and children are a good thing. But for some reason, because of Naga, in your country one isn't supposed to discuss any of it. It's kept away from children for being obscene, even though it's where they came from. You'll have to learn sometime. Such a joke is a knee-jerk reaction for a Feroxi.”

Emmeryn thought of her knight, rigid in his chair— _This does not seem like the sort of conversation a man and a woman should be sharing so casually_ —and pursed her lips. Perhaps the Khan had a point.

“I don't think that's a good enough excuse,” she said, “although I'd like to devote more time to considering your sentiment. I do not demand your respect, for I've done nothing on a personal level to deserve it. But I had hoped that you would not come into my home, eat my food, and then insult me. I can not help my age or my inexperience. I can only do my best.”

He was watching her now. She met his eyes.

“I want a continued alliance between our nations. If there is something I must learn to successfully ensure that, then please teach it to me. I will not be a girl forever. If you can stop treating me like one, I will learn faster.”

He was amused. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. “I think it's easier my way. Why should I give you a treatment you don't deserve?”

“All right,” Emmeryn said lightly. “I understand. I suppose that even asking shows my childish foolishness. I am a very, very foolish child, as you know. I might do something fanciful.”

“Fanciful.”

“Like take our recovered treasury and start funding the cause of this charming young Basilio you speak of so often.”

He clenched his jaw but smiled again. “You can't affect a Feroxi campaign with money. It's all bravery and character and skill in battle. If you're a good enough candidate, you can make an army of the people who support you. If you offered him gold, he wouldn't accept it.”

“No. But I have all these soldiers on the Plegian border, you see, that are still making the Plegians nervous, and I'd like to pull them out. But where should I send them? They have to earn their bread somehow. Maybe Basilio would know. They might like to support him, especially if I do.”

“Another country should not interfere with our affairs.”

“And an older ruler would know that. But I am a very naïve little Exalt. And if I should do something without understanding, for a man who has his sights set on becoming Khan and would thus have to meet with me someday...well, would he say no to such a gesture of goodwill?”

It was all a gambit, of course. To interfere would be grounds for the Feroxi to start a war, or at least violently dispatch her soldiers. It went against her belief of nonaggression, and while Ylisse did have a little money now to spend on spies or other interferences, she intended to use it to help some of the widows and orphans the war had left. But she didn't think Regna Ferox had the money for a conflict, just now, just as Ylisse didn't, and she was banking on it.

“Hah,” was all the Khan said, and drained the brandy at his chairside table with one tip of the glass.

The night did not grow any more pleasant, but Emmeryn was not ignored or belittled this time. She would consider it a small victory.

Small but exhausting. Was a threat still in line with nonaggression? Had it been a wise thing to do? Was it overdramatic? Under-authoritative? She filled her mouth with coffee to keep it shut for the rest of the meeting.

xXx

Frederick was the one posted outside her door when she returned. She wondered if she smelled too strongly of coffee. She'd ended up drinking a lot and would be up a long while.

“Did something happen, Your Grace? You look,” he paused. "Not quite yourself."

“You told me I could ask anything of you. Did you mean anything?”

“But of course,” he said, though he looked puzzled. “What is it?”

She wanted to be held. By whom, it didn't matter. If it were Phila at the door, she would have asked Phila. She wanted someone to just climb into bed beside her and let her bury her face in their chest for a while. She wanted to sync her breath and her heartbeat to someone else's, to feel reassured and protected again. It had been so long since she could take a break from relying on herself. From Ylisse relying on her. All those people, with dreams and families and troubles.

She could ask Frederick. But the longer she looked at him, the worse an idea it sounded. Her friends were some of those Ylisseans. She couldn't go back to childish habits. She couldn't look weak. Not in front of her opponents, but especially not in front of her dear ones. They needed her just as much as the people out in the city below. Perhaps even more, as they were in the vulnerable position of catching a glimpse of their leader being vulnerable. She could do it. She shouldn't make them uneasy.

“It's nothing,” she said. “I was only wondering. Goodnight, Frederick.”

“Goodnight, Your Grace.”

The room was very dark when she shut the door behind herself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo yeah basically I just really wanted to write a naïve Emmeryn getting her Bad Words education from the guy least equipped to explain it and handling it way better than him because he's easily flustered and she's NEVER flustered. Also some of this is me processing that I live in a country where sexual jokes are waaaay more socially acceptable than my home country, even when minors are involved. Also also a reader had told me Emmeryn standing up against a politician not taking her seriously would add a lot to the story, and I think he was right, so here we go. I might revisit the topic later. That's why all this turned out to be slapdash nonsense, but I haven't posted in a long while and I think this is as good as it might get for now. 
> 
> Anyway, Young Upstart Basilio 2k15. Just gets comfortable as Khan and then BAM, Young Upstart Flavia 2k16.


	11. Wellness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your Grace, I know.” Phila's arms tightened around her, and Emmeryn stopped resisting. The warmth of the embrace helped quell her trembling a little, and something about the way Phila said it made her believe she really did know, somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ages: As of last chapter, Emmeryn is 17, Frederick is 19, Chrom is 11 and Lissa is 7.
> 
> Also there's more Phila because 100% of FE fics are missing something, and that something is more Phila.
> 
> I gave this chapter a customary proofread before I posted it and got bored, so I'm assuming the writing is way too expository and generally awful. Let's just call all this headcanon filler?

The seasonal illness swept through the castle, perpetuated by the unseasonably damp winter. Chrom caught it first, though one wouldn't have noticed.

 _Boys are incredible_ , Emmeryn thought as she watched him romp in the snowy garden, cheeks flushed with fever. She'd ordered him straight to bed and he'd gone out to play anyway. His maid only sighed and shrugged, speculated that the cold air would keep the fever down. Emmeryn leaned against the freezing stone doorpost and watched, arms folded, waiting for him to notice her.

The cold seeping through her sleeve and into her shoulder helped keep her awake. Things had been very hectic lately, as she struggled to re-open trade negotiations with Plegia and Plegia itself struggled with its power vacuum. She hadn't been sleeping much, and the sunlight on the snow hurt her eyes.

There was an impressive army of little snowmen built around the fountain. Chrom declared one the King of Plegia and kicked it down, wielding a stick sword with impressive accuracy for an eleven-year-old, but spared the King's snowwoman and snowchildren, as well as all his snowmen-at-arms, who were only doing their duty by defending him. When he turned back, satisfied, he looked appropriately guilty to find Emmeryn watching him.

“I thought I told you to be in bed,” she said.

“I feel much better,” Chrom insisted.

“That's the fever.”

“Jillian said I could!”

The maid looked guilty, so Emmeryn smiled at her.

“Jillian does what you say because you are the prince,” she told Chrom. “Do not get her into trouble. You know right from wrong, and you are in charge of your conduct, not anyone else.”

Chrom seemed a little taken aback by that. He trudged back to her side, pants soaked to the knee, with a bashful apology to his caretaker as he came. Emmeryn put a hand on his shoulder as she guided him through the door, to show that no one was angry with him.

“Your snowman army is very impressive. When did you make it?”

“Yesterday, with Lissa, before I got sick.”

Emmeryn and Jillian exchanged a look of dread over Chrom's head.

xXx

Surely enough, Lissa came down with it the next day. Like Chrom, who grumpily sat abed with his arms folded and stared out the frosted window, she did not appear to be the least bit sick, at first.

That same day, Emmeryn was sitting in her parlour with ten of her guard, going over some changes in their patrols and trying to force them to eat all the tea cookies while they were at it. Frederick in particular seemed against the idea, something that made Phila pull her lips thoughtfully to one side.

Though the meeting was cordial, there was an oddly formal tone about it, and it didn't take long for Emmeryn to pinpoint its cause. Most of the royal guards spoke right over Frederick's head. He was never once asked for his opinion, and the one time he tried to speak, he was interrupted. Something was a little off in the balance of her retinue, and there would never be a better time to piece it together than with many of them assembled like this.

Her thoughts were broken, however, when Hilda, Lissa's main caretaker, opened the door and reported that Lissa had gone down for her nap without any trouble that afternoon.

Emmeryn and Frederick found each others' eyes across the table. Lissa never, ever agreed to a nap without trouble.

Emmeryn was quick to wrap up the meeting, and as her guard dispersed, Phila and Frederick lingered. As impatient as she was to get to Lissa's side, she put on a pleasant smile for them both.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“I've something to discuss with you,” said Phila. “It can wait until you have a spare moment. For now, I'd be happy to accompany you in silence.”

“I want to see Lady Lissa too,” Frederick confessed. Emmeryn nodded and hurried off to her sister, aware of both of them at her heels.

It was comforting to have them so close. Frederick was not so subtle about his friendship, but Phila, especially, always began things with business and seemed to end them with genuine concern for Emmeryn and her siblings. She was truly lucky, she knew, and the thought buoyed her as she entered Lissa's room and found the girl limp on her bed.

She looked flushed, restless, and her hair was damp with sweat. Emmeryn sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed it back from her brow.

“Little thing,” she murmured. “Why didn't you tell anyone you were feeling poorly?”

The answer was obvious, peeking up at her from under the covers of her own bed, still sweat-soaked and distressed and golden-haired: _I'm going to be more grown up. I'm going to be like you, Emmeryn_.

The thought kept her anchored there. Frederick and Phila stayed for a respectful amount of time, watching Lissa's face, before the former went to check on Chrom and the latter left to begin her evening patrol. When Lissa eventually woke, she whined because she felt so hot and uncomfortable, and struggled when a cleric came to check her over, and refused to eat what Emmeryn and Hilda tried to give her.

Emmeryn sympathized. She didn't feel much like eating, either. All she wanted to do was curl up in bed with Lissa and doze off early. Still, she had to be vigilant for her sister, and once Lissa fell asleep again, there was a mountain of paperwork waiting.

When Lissa finally drifted off, it was too fitful to be called rest. Emmeryn kept holding her hot little hand, unable to tear herself away and go to her cold desk. For all her efforts, they still didn't spend enough time together. And while Lissa was healthy, and the cleric said her fever was not high enough to worry about unduly, Emmeryn just couldn't help herself.

“Your Grace.”

Emmeryn looked up from Lissa's face, surprised to find Phila back so soon. “What's the hour?”

“After supper. Here.”

Phila pushed something warm into her hands. A bowl of beef stew. Steam curled up into the air, and it looked appetizing, but Emmeryn's stomach remained stubborn.

“Thank you,” she said anyway as Phila sat primly beside her. “You know, you don't have to stay with me. Chrom is fine, and Lissa will be too. You have the rest of the night off, don't you?”

“Aye. And I'd prefer to spend it with you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered again. “You've eaten, right?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Please don't worry.” Phila glanced back at Lissa. “How long do you intend to remain? I hate to be insensitive, but you have much to finish before tomorrow, and it would not be in your best interests to stay up late.”

“I know. I just don't want to leave her alone. She'll have to be, for the next few days, so that little Maribelle doesn't catch whatever this is.”

“So you're waiting on Frederick, to relieve your watch.”

“I'm not waiting. But I do hope he'll come. Perhaps that's silly of me.”

“They get along quite well. She might suffer him as your replacement.”

Emmeryn wondered if she was asking too much of them. Phila sensed her need for friendship and stayed close to provide it. And Frederick had been enveloped into their family without any of them asking his permission—not that they needed it to love him, but they should have sought it if he was to shoulder any of the responsibilities that being part of a family entailed.

“You aren't eating, Your Grace.”

“Forgive me. I think today has just been a little strange. I'm sure my appetite will be back tomorrow.”

Phila looked unconvinced, but Emmeryn was spared when the door creaked open and Frederick slipped in. Though his clothes were neatly buttoned and adjusted, he was as red-faced and damp-haired as Lissa, and Emmeryn nearly worried until the strong smell of soap followed him.

He'd come right from a bath. In its way, that was even stranger. The knights usually bathed mid-morning, after their training. Emmeryn knew because Phila's bun was always dark when she came for the late morning shift at her door.

“Forgive my absence, Your Grace,” he said. “I was training. I will be delighted to watch over Lissa for you for the rest of the evening.”

“Training?” Emmeryn repeated. “I thought you trained in the morning?”

“I must improve,” he said—not to her, but to Phila, locking their eyes before he turned his gaze to Lissa. “She does not look well.”

“You don't look so well yourself,” Phila said, and despite the sarcastic rapport she and Frederick sometimes shared, to Emmeryn she sounded sincere.

Emmeryn looked a little closer. Frederick did seem unusually pale, and certainly tired. He hadn't touched any of the food she'd offered to her knights that afternoon.

“You've been at this for at least a fortnight,” Phila continued. “Do not think I haven't noticed. Your performance will suffer if you do not give yourself time to rest. Perhaps you should only do the normal amount, tomorrow.”

“You know the adage, Captain. No one ever accomplished anything by saying 'perhaps.'”

Emmeryn wanted to be contrary, in her tiredness, now bordering on crankiness: Perhaps _I shall fall asleep right over my paperwork. I'll manage it splendidly. Watch._

Instead she leaned over Lissa, as Frederick lowered himself into the seat at her bedside, and kissed her brow.

“Goodnight, my love,” she whispered. “I'll see you in the morning.”

xXx

Her thoughts were on Lissa, during the walk back to her rooms, but Phila's weren't.

“That boy. I warned you, Your Grace. He takes everything too far. With this many people sick, someone wise would be resting.”

“What was all that about training?”

Phila hesitated. “Nothing of import.”

Emmeryn studied the stones passing under her feet as they walked. Phila obviously considered this something to be kept off her plate. If she was to know, then, she'd have to figure it out herself. It didn't take her very long.

Frederick was working very hard. Working to prove something. _Because the other members of the guard don't respect him_ , she realized, and with no real surprise. Why should they? He was very young, and though he was as talented as many of them, he had none of the others' experience.

He hadn't even been promoted entirely on skill. He'd been promoted because Emmeryn had taken an interest in him, had wanted him to learn his worth. Perhaps they saw right through that, or they assumed that because his family had always served hers, for generations upon generations, Frederick had been thrust forward on ceremony instead of honourably proving his skill like the rest of them.

Emmeryn hadn't realized it might make things more difficult on Frederick, to be shown such favour. Perhaps it was even worse than she knew. Did he think that, rather than choosing him for his subtle potential, she'd chosen him out of _pity?_ Had she been foolish?

And yet, remembering the look in his eyes when she'd shown him his father's shield, like he'd had nothing he wanted, nothing to live for but perhaps the fear of his horse being neglected in his absence; remembering how violently he used to protest the slightest hint of affection...had she not done the right thing?

“Is there something I can do?” she found herself asking.

“If you want my honesty, Your Grace, it is my opinion that the Guard must handle this themselves.”

Emmeryn nodded, seeing the wisdom in it. Her interference might only cause more problems. They were a fraternity, and she a sphere outside it. And no matter how much she tired of always being outside, there were moments like this, walking through the corridor with Phila close by, stopping before her door together, the words spoken that proved how well she was loved and cared for:

“Please rest well tonight, Your Grace. Please.”

Emmeryn turned her smile at her, but found that she was out of words, for the night. Her brain had sunk to its knees where it stood. She'd need to conserve whatever strength remained for the work on her desk. At a bit of a loss, she reached up and merely touched Phila's cheek. It seemed to be enough of a reassurance.

xXx

Her duties kept her up almost until dawn. Emmeryn snatched only an hour or two of sleep, and when she woke, her temples throbbed and her throat felt too thick to force words through.

Her first hazy thought, outside of how painful it felt to be awake, was that she was glad she hadn't been able to say anything to Phila the night before. If she'd promised to rest, it would have been a promise she wouldn't have been able to keep.

She was surprised to see that her clothes for the day hadn't been laid out on the divan for her. Didn't Frederick always do that, when he had the night watch? But she was mistaken, she remembered as she tried to focus her eyes on the rows of clothing in her wardrobe. Frederick's watch was tonight, not last night. Last night he'd been looking after Lissa.

That was her first stop, in the morning, heart hammering a little too fast as she opened Lissa's door. Laughter greeted her, and quick flashes of bouncing shadow in the sunlight. She frowned to see Chrom jumping on Lissa's bed, with Lissa squealing as Chrom's weight bounced her up, too. Both Hilda and Jillian looked amused.

“Chrom,” she said, but he kept bouncing, not the slightest bit concerned.

“Jillian said it was all right!”

“We spoke about this yesterday.”

“No, no, I remember!” He stopped jumping to give her a smile. “I didn't ask to get up. I said I felt a lot better and she called the cleric back. They told me it was all right to walk for a little while, today.”

Emmeryn hoped her smile was good enough praise, because it hurt to talk but she meant every ounce of the pride in it.

“Anyway, everyone said Lissa was sick, but they're liars! Look, she's fine!”

He bounced again and Lissa loosed another ripple of laughter. Hilda informed Emmeryn that Lissa fell into a much deeper sleep a couple of hours after she left; so deep that even Sir Frederick had felt comfortable leaving. She pulled a wry face at that “even”, which made Emmeryn want to smile. In the morning, Hilda finished, Lissa had no fever. After another day of bedrest, she would be as healthy as Chrom.

“No, I'm that healthy today!” Lissa said suddenly, overhearing. “I'm fine! I promise! Let me get up too!”

“Oh no,” Emmeryn said before she left. “Not yet. Absolutely not.”

“But he's going to play in the snow _without_ me!”

She closed the door behind her, satisfied to hear, in her wake, Lissa trying to order Jillian to let her up and Chrom chiding her for unprincesslike behaviour.

xXx

Her mood soured instantly to see Frederick at his usual post. He was so pale that the circles under his eyes looked like they'd been smudged there with charcoal. Guilt tightened her already-pained throat. She should have managed her time better. She should have worked harder.

“You needn't have stayed so late,” she told him. He just smiled and shook his head.

“I have many duties to fulfill. That one was but a pleasure. I would not have had it any other way.”

“You need to rest.”

He glanced at her, perhaps surprised with how she'd cut to the chase, but didn't say anything. He didn't need to. She could read it in the tightness of his knuckles around his lance, the guarded glint in his hazel eyes, so like the way he used to look at her when he was first promoted.

_I will not be called worthless again. I will not be called undeserving of the space I take up. I will never give anyone any excuse. I will make my name, earn my place, become worthy, because a man long dead still holds absolute sway over the regard in which I hold myself, and I cannot abide it._

And Emmeryn understood, and she hated it.

“Please, Frederick,” was all she could manage, but she wasn't sure how to finish nor how she wanted him to respond, so she entered the meeting room instead.

xXx

She didn't see him at lunch, nor at supper. She wouldn't have noticed either time, had Phila not appeared deliberately at her door to “escort” her to her meals.

“You've never done this before,” Emmeryn said as they sat together in the great hall. It was no longer an uncommon space for her, since she tried to have as many meals there as possible, mingling with the soldiers and castle staff. For the moment, she and Phila ate alone, in relative privacy, facing each other across the oaken table.

“Today,” said Phila, “I felt the need to.”

“You needn't worry. I'm all right.”

The captain raised her eyebrows, but allowed Emmeryn to return to her rooms unescorted, her stomach roiling from the small bites she'd managed to force down. In a similar fashion, she forced herself down at her desk to start working through the large pile on it.

She wasn't sure how many hours she spent there. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so miserable, either. Her whole body ached, her throat sprouted thorns each time she swallowed, she was exhausted. She dozed often, and once got drool on a document and had to scramble to dry it. It was only when her candle guttered that she realized it was the middle of the night.

It was Frederick's watch, surely. He always came in to help her ready for bed and set out her clothes for the next day. He at least would have said goodnight. Was he resting after all? Had he found a replacement to take his post by her door?

No. He'd never do that. He was in no position to ask someone of a higher station for a favour. Heart in her sore throat, Emmeryn pushed her chair back and hurried for the door.

He was there, on the ground in the corridor, back against the wall, knees drawn up like they'd given way. His eyes were closed. His lance leaned haphazardly against his shoulder, ready to clatter out of his loose grip at any moment. He hadn't stirred when she opened the door.

“Frederick. _Frederick_.”

She hurried to her knees before him, biting her lip when calling his name earned no response. She whispered it again, brushed her fingers against his face. The contact made him groan and draw his eyebrows together, and she let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. She deepened the touch, palming his cheek, and he reached a hand up to weakly grasp her wrist. She supposed her cold hand felt good against his hot face.

“Frederick,” she said again.

This time his eyes opened, though they took a while to focus on her. He smiled in recognition before he mumbled, “Emmeryn.”

“Stand up. We're getting you to bed.”

“But I'm on watch.”

“No you're not.”

“My shift is finished?”

“It most certainly is. Come on.”

It took some effort but she managed to get him to his feet. He was much taller than her, but he was still relatively skinny, and Emmeryn thanked the gods for it as she helped him back into his room. Heat positively radiated from where he leaned against her. It was an unnatural heat, jittery and overdone, but she soaked it in anyway, because she had started to shiver.

She wanted to chide him but couldn't manage it. He was clearly in no state to hear a lecture, anyway.

The barracks were absolutely deserted, this time of night. Everyone was resting or out on patrol. She got him all the way to his room without encountering a single soul. For a moment she worried about bunkmates, as she opened the door, until she remembered all the royal guard didn't share their rooms.

She changed him into his pyjamas and forced him into bed, as swiftly as he always did for her. She tucked the covers down snugly. How did she ask for a cleric? The thought made her feel incredibly stupid. Whenever she, Chrom, or Lissa had ever needed one, a servant had sent for one. She didn't know how to do it herself. She could go down to their ward and ask, of course, but what if they were all asleep? Was there a protocol to this sort of thing? What if they asked how Frederick had gotten changed and into bed? Could she lie about it with a straight face?

Frederick hadn't said a word. Buying herself time to think, she sat by his bedside and wished he'd close his glazed eyes. She pulled her handkerchief out of her sleeve to dab his face. He seemed to finally snatch a coherent thought and grabbed her wrist again, urgent.

“My replacement.”

“Don't worry about that. Your watch is over.”

“No. No. It isn't. It's not over until my replacement comes. They didn't come. There's no one keeping you safe.”

“No one keeping me safe,” she repeated, a little amused.

“Yes.”

“At my door.”

“Yes!”

“While I'm not in my rooms.”

Frederick looked utterly baffled. His grip slipped from her arm and she touched his hair to apologize for poking fun while he was so sick and confused.

“But you're so ill,” he said finally, and though the irony was just as funny, Emmeryn couldn't put it off any longer. She felt like she could teeter over onto his floor at any moment.

“Yes. I'm ill too.”

“So you should go to your room.” Frederick looked very torn. “But you're not safe there.”

She hesitated. Her shivering started again.

“I'm going to find a healer,” she whispered. She omitted the fact that it was for him, and so he didn't protest. It took her a moment to push herself back up on shaky legs. It was tempting to stay and fall to the pillow beside him and let herself black out, but when his replacement really did arrive, they'd come looking for him later, and she shouldn't be around for that.

Poor thing. He worked so hard and he was going to get in trouble anyway. Unless a healer could fix him up enough for him to stand a couple more hours at his post?

Fueled by hope, Emmeryn stumbled out. She'd nearly made it out of the barracks entirely when someone caught her up in their arms, thin and strong and smelling very much like Phila. _Now_ they were in trouble. Emmeryn started to try to struggle loose.

“Please, I've something important to do.”

“Your Grace, you're going to bed, and I will not permit an argument.”

“But a cleric—”

“My first priority, after escorting you, will be to find and send you one, I assure you.”

“No, not for me, it's not for me, it's for—”

“Your Grace, I know.” The arms tightened around her, and Emmeryn stopped resisting. The warmth of the embrace helped quell her trembling a little, and something about the way Phila said it made her believe she really did know, somehow.

“But his replacement,” she couldn't help but argue anyway. “If they find out he couldn't do it, everything will get worse for him.”

“Alas, they already know.”

“Phila, I have to—”

“ _I_ was his replacement, Your Grace.”

Emmeryn bit her lip for a while. Phila just kept holding her, and finally reassured,

“I'll take care of everything. Come along.”

She nodded and leaned on the other woman, letting herself be guided upstairs. She was changed and tucked into bed, and it didn't feel strange, even though Frederick was the only guard who had ever nannied her in the past. Phila said something before she left, but Emmeryn couldn't make sense of it. She was already half asleep.

xXx

The next day was a kaleidoscope of fever dreams, shadows moving behind the blinding screen of sunlight pouring into her room. Too hot and too cold by turns, shaking and sweating both under the blankets.

Phila's hand was often there, clenched in hers, though Emmeryn wasn't sure how often it was real. Sometimes she squeezed it harder and asked about Chrom and Lissa, rising from the pillow, only to be gently pushed back and murmured something. Eventually she remembered them bouncing on the bed, and relaxed.

She might have worried for Frederick, too, but for a snatch of something tangible: several apologies, whispered to her through her sleep, each followed by a lingering kiss to her knuckles or the tucking of a curl behind her ear. Whether it all happened or not, it put her at ease.

Xxx

The next morning, she woke sweating, but it felt pleasant. Cooling. Like she'd run a long way and was finally allowed to stop.

At first she wondered what had roused her, until two huge weights threw themselves onto her stomach.

“Emmeryn, you're awake!”

“I am now, yes.”

She tried to sound grumpy but couldn't quite manage it with a sibling snuggling into each side.

“The clerics kept us out all day yesterday!” Lissa complained. “They said hand-holding wouldn't make you feel better, which is _dumb_. I felt better when you and Frederick held my hand!”

“But you're all right now?” Chrom asked.

“Yes,” she said, oddly truthful. “I feel much better than yesterday.”

After a few more hugs and constantly-interrupted stories about their adventures in the snow, Hilda and Jillian came into pull them away. They left with promises to visit again in the evening. Phila was shown in, in their wake.

The captain's gait was sure as always, but now she smiled a little. Emmeryn dropped her eyes to the coverlet and her head to the pillow.

“You must think me very foolish.”

“Foolish in your nobleness, perhaps, Your Grace.” Phila sat down in the chair at her bedside, where Emmeryn had dreamt her being. “There are worse qualities one could have in an Exalt.”

“I'm so sorry for the trouble you took. Thank you for everything.”

“There's no need for that.”

Phila reached over to her nightstand. Emmeryn heard a clink and raised her head. The captain had a small pot and was pouring something thick out of its tapered lip, into a small cup.

“A draught to keep you asleep,” she explained. “It will speed your recovery. The throne can not be absent too long.”

Emmeryn nodded and reached for the shot of medicine, even though she wouldn't have minded being awake for a little while longer. It was very bitter but she gulped it down. The ache in her limbs was immediate, reminding her once more of running for a long time. She sank back down into bed.

Her eyes had almost fluttered shut when she remembered something that shot them open wide.

“You had business,” she said. “The other day. Something to tell me.”

“Don't worry about it now, Your Grace.”

“Was it important?”

“Shh. It will wait until you're well.”

Phila began to stroke back her hair. It was such a lulling gesture.

Emmeryn closed her eyes and allowed herself to doze off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. It's kind of a little important.
> 
> 2\. Why didn't Phila get sick? Because Phila's a pro who sleeps enough.
> 
> 3\. In the game Fred's eyes are brown but in the official art they're green. In this fic I'm compromising with hazel. (Green eyes though uuuhhhhggggg I'm a sucker for them.) Also I think at this point in time he's still kind of a skinny dweeb instead of the tank we all know. Sully says in their supports that he didn't look like much when she first met him, so I'm assuming he doesn't get to Fitness Hour Status until his 20s. 
> 
> 4\. Originally this was all just going to be alluded to in the next chapter, but then I was like, “Or I could just write the uber sicfic chapter too because I'm trash.” Soooo yeah.


	12. Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have been thinking about courting quite a lot.”
> 
> “Your involvement in my personal life has made that quite clear.”
> 
> “For myself,” she clarified. “It has become very important. Nearly mandatory. I'll have to find a husband soon. I'm the Exalt, of course. I need support. Political leverage. Heirs.”

_Seventeen,_ Emmeryn thought to herself, staring at the small ripples on the surface of her bath. She was submerged to the chin, and the warm water felt nice, but she continued to feel troubled. _You became a woman grown this year. You've been able to bear children for_ four _years._

It was surely wrong, but Phila's news had impressed a sort of urgency upon her. Drastic times, perhaps, called for drastic measures. She shut her eyes tightly and tried to imagine the captain in the bath with her. What was supposed to be attractive? Long, soft, pale hair tumbling out of her bun, over smooth shoulders and full breasts, painting stripes of moisture over her skin as she bathed. A perfectly curved waist and magnificent thighs, testaments to her mastery over beasts of the air.

Nothing. She felt nothing.

She squeezed her eyes tighter, tried Frederick next. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, water droplets rolling down all the hard ridges of muscle in between. How warm and firm his mouth would be on her hand, lapping up the water gathered between her fingers in the most sincere symbolism he could muster.

_Nothing._

_Emmeryn, what is the_ matter _with you?_

And no matter how hard she imagined, no matter how long she shut her eyes, she couldn't get her last conversation with Phila out of her head, the captain's red eyes too-level and so very calm:

_Your Grace, now that you're well, there is something important that must be brought to your attention. I'm sure you know that soon marriage and heirs will become a concern._

Emmeryn didn't want to think about any of that yet. Emmeryn didn't want those things even when she _did_ think about them. The idea was borderline _repulsive_. But she'd nodded, and she'd smiled.

With a long sigh, she sank under the water.

xXx

“Do we need to talk?” she asked Frederick the next evening as he brought her tea. He looked up at her in surprise as he set the pot down.

“Do we, milady?”

She just looked at him from the window seat for a while, wondering where to begin.

“I believe that the last time we spoke face-to-face, you had collapsed outside my door.”

“'Collapsed' is a bit overdramatic, isn't it? I prefer to think it was more of a gentle easing into a sitting position.”

“While delirious with fever.”

“Milady was not faring much better.” He straightened from the table, lowering his head. When Emmeryn realized what was coming she bit her lip. “But you're right. I caused you a great deal of trouble when you were already ill, and I had the audacity to apologize while you had too much medicine in you to even focus your eyes, let alone hear me. I'll say it again now. Forgive me for my carelessness. Forgive me for my selfishness.”

“I don't want an apology from you,” she said, forcefully, but he didn't take his words back. Confused, she repeated, “And what's this about selfishness?”

“I accepted your favour before I had earned it. It cannot be overlooked.”

“Ah.” She watched him as he brought her a teacup, though he wouldn't meet her eyes. “That's actually what I meant to discuss. Will you sit?”

He eyed her then but eventually unbuckled his sword and sank onto her sofa, pouring himself a cup of tea too. “Your Grace?”

“Why are you pushing yourself through all this training? I've gathered that some of the older members of the Guard think...” She trailed off, not knowing how much she should reveal. There was also the high chance that she didn't fully understand the problem or Frederick's feelings. He set his cup down without taking a single sip of his tea."

“They say I’m only here because I’ve been given the benefit of the doubt. That it’s all due to the family I come from, because we’ve served yours for so many generations.” 

“Not a far-fetched assumption, I suppose, with how suddenly you were promoted.”

“No, not in the slightest. But they don't know the truth.”

“And what is the truth?”

His hands clenched over his knees. He wouldn't look at her again.

“I'm here because you pitied me.”

She had to stay silent, twirling her cup in her hands. There was nothing to say. It was indeed the truth. She'd spent so many afternoons watching him train alone, walk alone, eat alone. She'd seen his accuracy, his dedication, his chivalry. She'd loved him for it. She'd told him so, because he was so unable to love himself.

But what it had created for him was a nigh impossible task.

“I'm so sorry,” she said finally. “As if your father's shadow wasn't enough, now you have to work your way out of mine. But Frederick...who I promoted was not a pathetic, lonely soldier I felt sorry for. Who I promoted was a zealous young man, who comes face-to-face with insurmountable difficulties and still hurls himself against them.” She looked at him, finally, to see that he was finally looking back. “I understand now that I was naïve, and I only made things more difficult for you. Please know I never meant to. I just admired your spirit so much, at the time, just as I do now. Can you forgive me?”

“I don't,” he echoed, “want an apology from you.” And then he stood, crossed the room to her, peeled one of her hands from the warm edge of her tea cup. She thought he meant to kiss it, and he did, but he cradled it between his own hands for a long while first. “I am pleased to serve as one of your Guard, and pleased for the opportunity to prove myself to the others.”

“It's not worth it if you work yourself to death over it.”

“No. So I have another idea.” He withdrew his hands and there was an odd spark in his eye as he turned away.

“And that is?”

“The first tournament since before the war will be held over the summer.” He reached her door and pulled it open, but turned back. He was smiling the widest smile Emmeryn had seen from him in a long time. “I’m going to win it. Good day, Your Grace.”

Odd. Emmeryn went back to nursing her cup, wondering about the sudden, almost breathless giddiness that had crept into his words.

xXx

It took Frederick a long while to realize it. Nigh on a year of giggling and flattery and brushed hands when he passed off a sleepy Lissa.

But it finally hit him one day, after he and Lissa herself had romped through the snow for a while. As the little princess ran off alone to topple the remains of the snowman army, her handmaids plucked at damp spots on his sleeves and fretted about his health. One even reached up to brush snow out of his hair. That was what did it, making him pause for a moment. Only Lissa and Emmeryn had ever touched his hair.

He wasn't sure how to proceed from there, outside of insisting that his illness was fully gone. He was not interested in courting. He had training to do. Goals to fulfill. Things to prove. Distractions simply would not fit into his schedule.

Yet they kept coming. Once he was well enough to get out of bed, he resumed his redoubled training, constantly lancing in the ring, as the lance was his weakest weapon. He should have known better, when he took a moment to think about it. Members of the Royal Guard enjoyed prestige, honour, and glory—even him, the least deserving. Phila, as one of the higher-ranked, had a veritable line of suitors patiently waiting for any opportunity to be at her side, knights and commoners and nobles from powerful houses, men and women both. That Frederick drew a small crowd of his own, particularly of lesser noblewomen while he practiced, should not have surprised him.

Though it did. The one unsurprised was Emmeryn.

One woman in particular had come each evening to watch him train. It was as if she knew that the sunset on her auburn curls cast a halo about her. Her eyes were a soft violet, wide and gentle, and her lips were always painted a russet bright enough to draw attention but worn with class and poise. She was kind, he came to learn, when they exchanged brief words each night. She had a little sister Lissa's age, whom she loved dearly, and they both moved to the palace to answer Emmeryn's call for playmates; she watched after her sister in her mother's stead, as her mother remained to run the household. Her passions were poetry, Valmese languages, and sewing tapestries. After enough of these conversations, she began offering him her handkerchief to dry his face. After a suitable number more, he finally accepted, tethered in place by curiosity: about her dreams, about specifics in her past, about what her red, red mouth would taste like.

Curiosity was keeping him up at night, lately. Both for her and for his Exalt, whom he hadn't spoken to privately since they'd exchanged their apologies. Every meeting between them involved either half a dozen knights or twice as many politicians. It was starting to wear on him, like the way the leather of ill-strapped armour chafed. He'd never gone so long without speaking to Emmeryn before, and he knew something weighed on her, with the recent pensive hood about her eyes.

He almost had the chance to ask, one morning, as Emmeryn had a small break between meetings. They walked to the corridor's windows together and watched the town below for a moment, exchanging the regular pleasantries, but before he could pry deeper she appeared.

If her hair in the setting sun's light was beatific, in the mid-morning sun it was blinding.

“Your handkerchief,” he said, pulling it out of his pocket. “I washed it. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure to loan it to you, Sir Frederick.” She took it from him and slipped it under her sleeve, against her delicate wrist. He felt a little jealous of it. She curtseyed very deeply to Emmeryn and asked about her health—light, lovely eyes widening a bit when her Emmeryn returned the question with genuine curiosity and even said her name. Emmeryn always remembered names. She gave a graceful answer, despite her surprise, before looking at Frederick again.

“Will I see you tonight?”

“It would be remiss of me to forget about my training. Her Grace must be protected at all costs.”

“Of course.” She smiled. It was formed beautifully, as she made all things. “Until then, Frederick.”

As she left, he watched the bouncing of her ringlets, bedazzled. Emmeryn broke his thoughts with a chuckle and a “By the nose of Naga.”

“You, of all people, should not speak the Goddess's name in vain!” he chided indignantly.

“You had a woman's handkerchief.”

“Your Grace.”

“In your _pocket_.”

“Your _Grace_.”

“Carried on your person like a token of favour, like you hoped to meet her by happenstance in a hallway.”

“Emmeryn!” It came out less annoyed and more pleading.

“What's this blush for?”

Her voice was no longer teasing, and Frederick flushed harder when he couldn't answer her. He'd suddenly started to feel a hundred different things: guilt foremost, and humiliation second, and he couldn't understand why. There was nothing wrong with returning something borrowed. His shoulders must have tensed because Emmeryn put her hand on the left blade, rubbing a little circle against the bit of his shirt she could reach between armoured plates.

“She likes you a lot,” she said softly. “Don't be nervous about a good thing like this.”

“Good?”

“Good. I'm very happy for you.”

His tumultuous feelings melded into a steady ache between his ribs, worsening with each breath he took because he knew she was sincere.

xXx

That evening Frederick came for tea. Emmeryn could tell by the line between his eyebrows that it was for a purpose, that something was worrying him, so she kept her eyes blank and her smile on.

“What news?” she asked as they sat on the sofas facing each other. Frederick pulled a face.

“I've been invited out into town. Just now, before I came here.”

“A date? I told you so. When will it be?”

“Do not be silly. I'm not going.”

“Why ever not?”

“I haven't the time for anything like that.”

“Perhaps you should make the time. You're nearly twenty and you've never courted anyone.” She was not condemning his past, merely curious. If he experienced attraction, what was stopping him? “Do you intend to remain a bachelor forever?”

“My heart lies with the realm.” Even the clink of his teacup being set in his saucer had a finality to it.

“No wife, then. No children.”

“No one to strike.”

Her smile faded. Of course he'd already thought so far ahead. “You would never raise a hand to anyone.”

“I've no idea what I would do. In light of recent events, I don't intend to find out if I am anything more like my father.”

To Emmeryn that was too much, too sad. She had every confidence that Frederick could be brilliant with a family. He and Chrom were the brothers they each had never had, and to Lissa Frederick was more of a mother than Emmeryn or even their own mother. She looked into her cup, watched the tiny ripples made by the trembling of her hands.

Decisions, decisions.

“I order you to go,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Accept her invitation. At the very least, you can make a new friend. Enjoy someone's company. Have fun, for once, Frederick. _Relax_.”

“I don't _enjoy_ relaxing!”

“And that's a problem,” she insisted. “You were so sick, recently. You wouldn't stop for even a moment, and you've hardly slowed still. If she can help you do that, I'll make it mandatory for you to spend time with her.”

His jaw tightened and he merely stared at the tea table, so she gently added,

“You don't have to listen if you don't think it's best for you. I'm not ordering you as your Exalt. Just as Emmeryn.”

He raised his eyes and gave her the strangest look, but before she could decipher it, he murmured, “I'll consider it.”

They spoke about other things for a while, mostly Lissa and Maribelle's latest adventures and Chrom's new propensity for agreeing to fight (and easily beating) the first-year squires in spars. Finally Frederick leaned forward and asked what Emmeryn had been assuming:

“Has something been troubling you, lately?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You have been quiet at your meetings.”

“Sometimes it's wiser to simply listen.”

His eyebrow arched, probably without him meaning it to, but he didn't press further, and she appreciated it. She didn't quite have all her words in order, yet. It was better to keep her doubts to herself in the meantime.

When he left, she returned to her theology of marriage book. She was in the middle of her third read.

xXx

Frederick hadn't felt such a strange, nervous fluttering in his chest since he was knighted in front of all those people.

Town was bustling. It was a warm night. She looked gorgeous, the skin of her face flawless, her hair elaborately coiffed. He agreed to somewhere high-end for dinner, to suit a lady's tastes, although he was worried about it being too fancy because he could be rather picky. What if he couldn't finish the food on his plate? What if he wanted to but the quivering in his stomach didn't stop? What if he said something stupid?

Had he forgotten to put on a scent? Gods, he had. He'd already ruined everything. The night was done for.

She didn't seem to mind. She was smiling when they were seated at their table. He was too nervous to talk much but she seemed perfectly composed, and plunged into what promised to be a very witty story. He couldn't keep his mind on it.

Had anyone double-checked Chrom's wrist? He'd twisted it a little at practice that morning. If something in those delicate bones had gotten inflamed, it'd be worse these hours later. Frederick should have thought of that before he left.

“Frederick?”

“Yes?”

She suddenly looked a little self-conscious. “Perhaps I'm...dragging the story on a bit?”

“No, certainly not. It's riveting.”

She continued and he concentrated. He could only manage it for a moment before the place setting began to bother him. He smoothed out a wrinkle in the tablecloth, adjusted his fork and knife to a more exact parallel.

What if whoever brushed Lissa's hair wasn't being gentle enough? Did they know to put pressure on her scalp so the tangles would not pull as badly?

Had anyone fetched her stuffed bear from the garden, or was it still abandoned there? Did anyone remember she'd taken it outside with her? What if she needed it to sleep and no one could find it in the castle? What if only Frederick knew its whereabouts?

“Frederick? Are you listening?” She was staring at him. She looked a compelling mixture of confused and irked, and his stomach lurched.

“Yes, of course. Please continue.”

A pause, a scrutinizing look, and she went on with her story. Frederick tried anew to follow the threads of it. It did sound very interesting, but he couldn't piece the plot together and didn't recognize any of the names she mentioned. And no matter how entertaining it truly was, his worries kept coming, churning up like waves, an endless rhythm of rising and breaking.

Emmeryn. What about Emmeryn? Phila could be trusted with her, surely. But were two heads not better than one?

Was she all alone in her room, still worried about whatever she'd refused to tell him? How could he call himself her protector, let alone her friend, if he went off to relax while she was so obviously distressed? His fidgeting increased. He straightened his cuffs, adjusted his plate, reset his fork and knife again. His companion's weren't even either. He'd reached across the table to fix it when he realized she wasn't speaking. The silence rang in his ears. She hadn't been speaking for a long time. Bashfully, he raised his eyes to find her simply watching him with her beautiful eyes.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

The various answers jumbled in his chest, pushed up by the updrafts of the butterflies in his stomach: _I don't know. Anything. Everything. Me and you, here like this. How much I want to kiss you. How hard I want to do it. Chrom's wrist, Falchion. Emmeryn's blank eyes. The angle of your fork. That wrinkle in your dress._

“I have to go,” he said instead.

“What?”

He was already pushing himself up from the table, his heart beating so fast it was like he'd run ten laps around the castle.

“Frederick, what's the matter? Please explain!”

“Lady Lissa's bear!”

He fled. By the time he made it outside he could scarcely breathe, but he kept running, hardly aware of the path he was taking, only keeping the castle in sight. At one point he had to stumble into an alleyway, too breathless to keep going, trying to press himself into the brick wall. His hand fisted in the front of his shirt but it didn't relieve the suffocation. It took a long time to slow his breathing enough to catch it again.

By the time he was back inside the castle he felt terrible, sluggish, like he was falling ill again. Miserable and humiliated. Lissa was tucked in bed with her bear. Chrom's wrist was unsplinted and comfortably bent as he dozed with a hand under his face. The light jilting of his stomach was long gone and it all felt weighted down like lead. Emmeryn's room was the only stop left.

xXx

Emmeryn was in bed, reading, when he barged in. She was so startled she nearly dropped the heavy book. She'd made it clear to her Guard that anyone they were familiar with was permitted to enter her rooms without knocking at any hour, for she could simply lock her bedchamber door if she was changing, but no one ever _did_ come in without knocking, outside of Chrom and Lissa. Frederick left the door cracked open behind him but came all the same.

He was a wreck. He was flushed and trembling, and his white shirt was rumpled and had red-brown dust smudged into it. She sat up straight at once, book in her lap, and held out her arms.

“What happened? She looked like such a nice girl!”

“Too nice.” Frederick sat on the edge of her bed, but too far to touch unless she stretched her legs out under her blankets and kicked him. “I don't know what happened. I panicked.”

“Panicked? About what?”

“About all of you. Whether Lissa had been settled for bed properly. If I hurt Chrom sparring this morning. Whatever it is that you've been anxious about. If you were safe.”

“Frederick,” she said, now quite worried, “of course I'm safe. I have all the other guards. Phila.”

“I know. I just...couldn't stop worrying. I couldn't think straight, couldn't breathe. We were having dinner one moment and then I was up and running the next.”

“You've never told me this happens to you.”

“It doesn't. Several times while I was a child, perhaps, but never after I was knighted. Never. I'd beaten it.”

Though Emmeryn had taken away the royal part of her royal decree, making it ultimately Frederick's decision to go out for the night, she now felt guilty.

“You were just nervous. It's all right. You can explain everything to her tomorrow.”

“If she ever wants to speak to me again. I feel like a fool.”

“I'm sure she'll understand.” Emmeryn went back to her book, letting Frederick sit there a while with his head in his hands. When he finally looked up, he noted,

“You've been reading that one for a long time.”

“It's interesting.” She flicked to a new page.

“It's growing late. I'm sorry to have intruded. Will you sleep soon?”

“If you will.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “You look exhausted.”

“I strive to emulate you in every way, milady.”

This time she stretched her left foot out and nudged his leg. “That isn't very nice.”

“Neither is kicking me.”

“That wasn't a kick. This is a kick.”

She was going to do it gently, but before she could even try Frederick's hand clamped around her ankle, blankets and all, and pinned her to the mattress.

For a moment she looked at him. She really looked. He was only focused on the ill-defined lump of her other leg, perhaps expecting a new attack. His hand's warmth was already bleeding through the blanket.

Nothing.

And nothing in his eyes, either. She wasn't sure if it hurt more or if it was more of a relief. He was so innocent. It was absurd for a soldier his age to be so innocent.

“I love you,” she said. He smiled at her coverlet.

“And I, you.”

“You will go out again tomorrow?”

“If she'll have me.”

“That's the spirit.”

xXx

“The spirit” did not serve Frederick very well.

He tried. She was very receptive at first, understanding, even. Laid a soft hand against his arm while he disclosed his worries, though his words were brief and his tone cool, more like he was delivering a status report than sharing anything about himself. They went out twice more. The second time he remembered he hadn't triple-checked the latches on Chrom's bedroom windows and abandoned her at the table again. The third time there was a stain on the tablecloth and he nearly knocked her glass over while trying to lift it out.

“Frederick,” she'd said with a sigh, “I do like you very much, but I don't think this is right after all. Can I come speak with you as a friend, in the evenings, from now on? Just a friend?”

“Milady,” he muttered with the ache back between his ribs, caked with guilt and shame and relief, “I would be delighted.”

There were a few others, after her. She apparently hadn't spoken ill of him since that third night in town, and the attention on him was not diminished. Frederick tried to be dedicated, focused, worthy of courtship, husband material from the very first moment. The string of women broke things off with him after a single night, one by one, after too much knee-bouncing or twitching or plate-polishing or straightening or diverting the conversation back to the Royal Family.

The invitations slowed to a trickle. He began to hear whispers of the word “fanatical” when he passed.

A few weeks later he was back on the edge of Emmeryn's bed with her, having snuck in while he was on guard duty. The momentary unease was pushed away by the thought that she would be just as safe with him at her side as she'd be with him outside the door.

“Perhaps I should try to change,” he said. “I know even you and Chrom and Lissa think I fuss too often. Perhaps if I was not always so—”

“Don't change anything,” Emmeryn said. Softly, but it was an order, not a request. “You will not be happy being anyone but yourself.”

He was useless, though. He still flushed to think of all the time he'd wasted. All the people he'd treated so terribly. He needed his own life, self-agency, but nothing was more important than the Royal Family. Than Chrom's safety, Lissa's happiness. Than his fair, fragile Exalt. Where was the balance? Emmeryn broke his thoughts by taking his hand.

“I'm too much,” he said. “Too Frederick.”

“You're not 'too' anything. You must find someone who appreciates you the way you are. That's all.”

“You say it like it's an easy thing, when I'm beginning to believe it's impossible.”

“ _I_ like you the way you are.”

He ducked his head in guilt. “Yes. Forgive me, Your Grace.”

“There's nothing to forgive. Everyone needs to be reminded, sometimes, even by their closest friends.”

“I am so lucky to have you, Emmeryn.”

“And I, you. I think I would be very lonely without you and Phila.”

He withdrew his hand and hesitated. She waited. He finally said, “Perhaps I should just pause for a while. I doubt Naga would condone all of this.”

“Condone all of what?”

“Me agreeing to try out woman after woman after woman. Relationships are to be taken very seriously. This is how marriages begin. To simply agree to spend the time with them, without proper consideration, without the deliberation and enough passage of time to ensure that what may be growing in our hearts will not easily fade—”

“Frederick.” It was difficult not to roll her eyes, though he was being earnest. “It is not at all wrong to accept multiple invitations to dinner. It does not contractually bind you to being someone's lover.”

“I might be in better grace with Our Lady if it did.” Now he was blushing.

“I don't understand.”

“A lover has...consent to feel a certain way. What if you are not anyone's lover? What if you feel desire for someone when you shouldn't?”

“When you shouldn't?” Her heart started to hammer.

“Toward someone you don't love. I...the first...I had such thoughts about her.” He looked miserably ashamed, for the brief second she could see before he stood and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back. She let him go. He liked to pace. “But I never loved her. Is that not wrong of me? Disloyal?”

_Disloyal to whom?_ She was afraid to ask. Instead she assured,

“It's not wrong in the slightest. It's perfectly normal.”

“It's said to be a sin.”

“When it manifests as an unwanted action.” She reached over for her theology book and nestled it in her lap. “The testaments are very clear about that.”

“I still hate it. I don't want it to be this way. I am not so naïve as to believe that love and lust always go hand-in-hand, but...I'd hoped that for me, they would. It's so much simpler.”

“Sometimes we don't turn out the way we'd hoped,” Emmeryn said quietly. “We turn out the way Naga made us. Whatever that may mean.”

“Aha. Are you going to tell me what's bothering you, yet?”

“Opportunist,” she accused as she slumped back onto her bed. There was a comfortable whuff. She had to take a few breaths before she could begin. “I have been thinking about courting quite a lot.”

“Your involvement in my personal life has made that quite clear.”

“For myself,” she clarified. “It...has become very important. Nearly mandatory. I'll have to find a husband soon. I'm the Exalt, of course. I need support. Political leverage. Heirs.”

“So that's why you've been reading so carefully.”

Emmeryn sat up and looked at the embossed cover for a while. _A Treatise on This the Most Holy Sacrament, Exalt Calistus IV._

“It isn't just the theology of marriage,” she said. “It also includes the entire theology of intimacy.”

As always, she didn't blush, but Frederick's returned at the tips of his ears even though his back was to her.

“A marriage is supposed to be for love,” she said. “But mine must be political. Is a love of my people enough to keep it pure and sacred, if I cannot love my husband? What if I cannot even _like_ him? What if he's anything like that Feroxi Khan, or the last Plegian king, or my father?” She was trembling now but it was too late to stop. “Am I expected to fall for him, and damned if I do not? And I—I must—there are steps I must take to have an heir. I do not know if I can take them.”

Frederick turned to watch her, concern in the angle of his brows, so she dropped her gaze back to her lap and the book. She was strong. Strong for him and for all of them. She had to remain so. When she spoke again her voice was steady.

“Our desire is the appetite Naga gave us in order to bring children into the world. It's a good and holy thing. But to engage in the act forcefully, or manipulatively, or with no appetite...that is truly wrong. And I have no appetite. I've been trying but I can't imagine anything desirable at all about anyone. So what am I to do? Is it all right to lie with my husband even if I don't want to, so long as I make the decision willingly, or is that as bad as him forcing himself upon me, or me eating when I am not hungry? If it is something meant to show love, do I corrupt such a thing by performing out of duty alone? And if it is the ultimate expression of romantic love, am I not good at loving if I do not wish to do it?”

“Emmeryn,” was all he said, and she could tell it was all he knew to say.

“The book does not have an answer. There is no mention of anyone like me. All it does is go on for a long time about how coupling before marriage is wrong, even if love is present. I wonder how that could be fair, quite honestly. Are you and I to be judged on the same scale, when you were made to feel desire and I was not?” She finally caught his eye and couldn't help but laugh at the irony. “All your worries about sinning, and here I am with an easier situation than anyone. Why, I'm practically a saint. Canonize me.”

Frederick was silent for a long while, just thinking. Finally he sighed, walked back to her, took the book out of her lap, and set it with a firm thump back on the table.

“Let us read a different book,” he said. “Just for a little while. Lie back?”

Emmeryn listened, scooting under the blanket and propping herself up on her pillows while she watched him go to her bookshelves and scan titles.

“Does a courtly romance sound amusing, milady?”

“Too stuffy, I think. Is there something with pirates?”

He selected a spine. She let him read until his voice got husky, and then hoarse, and before she could tell him to stop she'd fallen asleep.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I struggled a long time with headcanons for past!Fred, because I think he's so monogamous. Like he wouldn't kiss a person until he was sure he was also going to ask to marry them later. It'd mess with his OCD too much otherwise. Still, in his supports, even though he's not romantic, he does seem VERY observant to and unsurprised with confessions and dating, usually predicting his future wife's feelings before she can confess them (not like Captain Chromblivious, and not like a lot of the guys who go out on a limb to propose and feel relieved surprise when their gals say yes. He's SUPER bold with Maribelle, of all people. This is also why Cordelia totally throws him for a loop. She drops hints and HE NOTICES VERY QUICKLY, even though they ended up being about a different guy.) So basically after pestering argetcross for a while we decided that he'd have to be wise in the ways of women, but without ever entering a serious relationship or ever needing to commit himself, because with Emmeryn as his idol he just couldn't do it. And even that would be difficult for him, because he takes everything so seriously and commits so much to everything he has a hand in, soooo Emmeryn herself had to meddle a bit. It all feels a little weird and OOC but I have no better explanation for why a nutjob like Frederick understands the laydeez.
> 
> 2\. Everything is medieval europe and Emmeryn wears an Eastern Orthodox phelonion shhhhh let me just convert their religion into catholicism so I don't have to try and be creative with something new.
> 
> 3\. And when you can't get together you gotta hurry up and pressure them to find someone else and be happy without you so you can at least take heart in that amiright.


	13. Thawing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come along, Lissa dear, or we’ll be late for tea. Which would you like to have today?”  
> “I don’t care.”  
> “Snake venom tea it is, then.”  
> “Maribelle, come on! Don’t be gross!”

“Lissa, darling, honestly! You were just ill!”

“That was a month ago!” Lissa complained, though she stopped her face-first advance into the pond. For now she remained on her hands and knees on a particularly flat, cold rock.

“Come away from the edge, please? For me?”

“Maribelle, I just want to catch a fish,” she said. She’d been intrigued to see them, little orange specks buried in the mud at the bottom of the garden pond. “It’ll be too hard in the summer when they come out. But now they’re frozen!”

“Lissa, that’s disgusting.”

She huffed a great sigh and pushed herself back to her feet. Maribelle was worrying the hems of her sleeves between her fingers.

“I can swim, you know. You worried about me drowning?”

“Certainly not. If you were drowning I would jump in and save you.”

“What if there was a giant sea snake in the pond?”

“A lady abhors snakes but she is absolutely not afraid of them.”

“Yeah but what if he was eating me?”

“What if he _were_ eating me.”

“What if he _were_ eating me, most ferociously? I wouldn’t want you to jump in then.”

“But jump I would. And he would receive a good whack with my ruler if he did not let you go.”

Lissa broke first, laughing and laughing until Maribelle’s poised, doll-like face cracked into a smile as well. That was the best thing about Maribelle. She played along with every joke.

“Seems like an awful lot of trouble for lil’ ol’ me.”

“Not at all, darling.” Maribelle’s eyes weren’t laughing, then, and Lissa wondered at it, but her friend turned away from the pond and began to walk toward the castle. Lissa fell into step easily. Maribelle was taller than her, but she had a slow and dainty walk compared to Lissa’s galumphing one. “Come along, or we’ll be late for tea. Which would you like to have today?”

“I don’t care.”

“Snake venom tea it is, then.”

“Maribelle, come on! Don’t be gross!”

xXx

Tea was usually a wonderful time. Lissa always spent it cracking up with Maribelle. She’d seemed so shy at first, but opened up into a great conversationalist. Sometimes she liked to brush and play with Lissa’s hair afterward, too, and Lissa allowed it because Maribelle never tugged hard or worked impatiently like her handmaidens did. In return she liked to sneak Maribelle back sweets she’d pilfered from dinners she had to attend with Emmeryn and Chrom. Maribelle always protested, but Lissa could see right through her. Who’d say no to a chocolate-covered macaroon? A crazy person, that’s who.

But Maribelle was very quiet all through tea. She wouldn’t look at Lissa, even though she usually made very piercing eye contact. When Lissa asked what was wrong, she just said “nothing.” And when her handmaidens came to get her ready for the big dinner that night, because Emmeryn was entertaining BlahBlahBlah from WhoCaresWhere, so she and Chrom would have to sit in itchy clothes and not talk for hours, Maribelle slipped out without another word.

That’s why Lissa slipped _two_ macaroons into her pocket that night. She had to be so quick and sneaky that she didn’t even have time to wrap them in a napkin first, so they’d surely smudge her dress and get her in trouble again, but it was worth it to cheer Maribelle up. As soon as she was excused from the table, she sprinted to the gardens. Maribelle always waited for her there. Sometimes Lissa tried to ask her how long she’d waited, but she’d never say. She’d just go starry-eyed over the dessert Lissa’d brought.

But that evening, Maribelle wasn’t in the garden.

Lissa waited and waited for a long time, but she never came. Confused, she trudged back to her room. It was a very dark and silent walk through the corridors. She never had to go anywhere alone, these days.

She thought she might eat the macaroons instead, since they’d be hard by morning, but found her appetite gone. She didn’t speak a word when a maid undressed her and they fell out of her pocket.

_Maybe she was really tired,_ she thought as she climbed into bed. _I’ll surely see her in the morning. She always comes over to play._

But she didn’t come that morning either.

Or that day for lunch.

Or tea.

Or at all.

And not the next day, either.

xXx

On the third day, Lissa’d had enough of trying to be patient. She was so worried and confused that she wiggled through all her lessons, and as soon as she was free she sprinted to the quarters where Maribelle and her mother and their two servants lived. She knocked on the door. One of the servants answered with a deep curtsey.

“Is Maribelle sick?” Lissa asked.

“No, Your Highness.”

“Did she start a new lesson?”

“No, Your Highness. Shall I call her for you?”

“Oh.” Lissa’s wiggles stopped, but only because her limbs felt like they were being wrung out by some twisting in her stomach. “No. No thanks.”

She tried to walk, not run, away from the door. When she was alone in a corridor by her room, she leaned against the wall for a little while.

If Maribelle wasn’t sick or wasn’t busy, was it just that she didn’t want to see Lissa as often anymore? She curled her arms around her stomach because it was starting to hurt. What had she done wrong this time?

“Oh! Hey, Lissa!”

She snapped her head up to see Chrom, who looked just as surprised to see her. His one sleeve was pushed up, which was odd considering the cold weather. He quickly hid his hands behind his back and gave her a very strange smile.

“What did you do,” she said.

“What? Me? Nothing!”

“You are the _worst liar!_ ”

“See you later!”  

He hurried past and Lissa stared at his back before narrowing her eyes and whirling for her room.

Dolls were still in place; nothing stolen. The pictures she’d doodled that morning did not have moustaches and silly hats added to them.

Something croaked.

Cautiously, Lissa walked toward the sound’s source: her bed. It croaked again. Even knowing what was coming, heart in her throat, she peeled back her sheets and--

“ _Chrom!_ ” she screamed as the frog leapt out. Her shout made her handmaidens come running, and then they all were screaming too, and by the time Lissa mustered up the will to coax the frog into her skirt, Hilda picked it up in her bare hand like it was a cupcake and marched out in the direction of the gardens with it.

“There, there, Princess Lissa,” the others tried to console her. “Boys will be boys.”

Lissa put her hands firmly over her ears, because she was pretty sure she wouldn’t get off so easily for the same prank. But a new prank was coming! A better prank! Chrom would never know what hit him! She’d enlist Maribelle right away and the two of them would--

Oh. Right.

Having already decided this was one of the worst days of her young life, she helped strip her blankets off her bed and carry them off to be laundered. There wasn’t really anything else for her to do.

xXx

She went a whole week without Maribelle.

Lissa did have other friends, of course. Plenty of them, after Emmy had invited them all to the castle for her. But it wasn’t quite the same. They were great for games and parties and chatting in groups, but she had no one in particular she was close enough to tell secrets to. Besides all that, they were all very good at being proper ladies. They could keep their white shoes white and use their indoor voices and sit still for a long time. Maribelle could do all those things too, but she didn’t back down if Lissa asked for help pranking Chrom or wanted to go out and pet the chickens in the coop. Lissa was a little afraid to ask one of the other girls, in case they didn’t want to do unladylike things and stopped being friendly to her.

She tried to speak to Maribelle a few times, not really sure what else to say but feeling that something was too wrong to just let go. It didn't work. Each time Maribelle saw her she slipped away, deliberately ignoring her, and with every day that passed Lissa felt worse and worse.

Finally the sadness left, and when it did, she was _mad_. If Maribelle wanted to stop being friends so badly, Lissa at least deserved an explanation. She was going to confront her once and for all.

xXx

“You!”

She spotted Maribelle in the garden that evening, just before sunset and dinner. She was staring at the orange-washed pond as Lissa had been a week ago, and her head shot up like a startled deer’s.

“Look!” Lissa said to her. “You can be friends with whoever you want to be friends with! But I really liked you and now I feel sad every time I see you! At least tell me why you don’t want to be my friend anymore!”  

Maribelle froze. Lissa waited what felt like forever before her lips opened, and then trembled a little.

And then she turned around and sprinted for the castle.

“Hey!” Lissa shrieked. She ran after as fast as she could. Maribelle’s legs were longer, but Lissa was confused and pinched and so very _angry_ that she was fueled by it, a tiny newfangled steam-powered machine. She caught up in no time and tackled the older girl with a vicious battle cry. They both fell hard into the dirt.

“My smock!” Maribelle wailed.

“It’s your own fault! Why won’t you even _talk_ to me?”

“Because I _shouldn’t_ talk to you!”

“Says who?”

“Lissa, please. Just trust me.”

“ _Trust_ you?”

Lissa kept her pinned and stared her down. Maribelle stared back for a long moment as if contemplating pushing her off, but then looked away.

“I can explain.”

Lissa stood up and brushed off her dusty skirt. After a while Maribelle did the same.

“All right, Princess Lissa.”

Lissa’s stomach did its awful twist again, because Maribelle hadn’t called her “Princess” in so long, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I have been thinking for a while that...perhaps my presence is unnecessary, for you. It certainly doesn’t do you any good, at least. You have your brother and sister, and your handmaidens, and all the other girls at court. Everyone loves you to bits, and rightly so. But you spend too much time with me, and I’m not--I’m not anything like you.”

She dropped her head but the sudden hitch in her voice made Lissa’s heart thud. She grabbed Maribelle’s shoulder and tried to peer into her face. She was crying. Quick-witted, steely Maribelle who gave good hugs.

“What are you talking about?” she demanded.

Maribelle’s answer was a wail, like a dying bird dropping out of the sky, her sobs like it hitting the ground and bouncing, skidding, carried away by all the forces of the earth. She quickly whipped out her handkerchief and hid her face, muffling the sound.

“You’re my only friend, Lissa! The only one! I’m not likeable like you!”

“That’s ridiculous! I like you so much!”

“Because you’re kind and wonderful. But I ask too much of you. I’m nothing more than a parasite, taking up the affection that others deserve.”

_Parasite?_ Lissa could only stare, the lump in her throat too big to speak past. _Others?_

“I--” She tried, and couldn’t manage it. The words were beyond her years or her knowledge, she only knew the raw ache of Emmeryn’s heavy meeting room doors, always shut; Chrom’s room always empty as he played with the boys his age; Frederick always straightening up her toys after a game and leaving for a higher duty, something more pressing, someone more important.

“You are always so sweet to me, Lissa. You give me so much, but I am unpopular and I have nothing to offer you in return. I don’t want to damage your reputation or to take what I don’t deserve, so I should leave you be.”

“Maribelle, that’s so untrue.” Lissa clamped her other hand down on her friend’s other shoulder, forcing them face-to-face.

“It is. I should stop visiting you so often.”

“Maribelle, please!” She threw her arms around her neck, squeezing tight like Maribelle planned to flee again then and there. Maribelle’s hands and handkerchief were uncomfortably balled against her chest, but she held on. “Please, no. Don’t go. You don’t understand.”

“I most certainly don’t.”

“You’re my friend. I like to spend time with you. You’re funny and you’re smart and you don’t...you’re the only person I have who doesn’t _have_ to go.” She felt tears start to sting her eyes too. “I’m not lonely when I’m with you.”

A pause. A sniffle. Slowly, Maribelle’s hands unclenched, found their way out from between them and around Lissa’s waist, hugging her in turn. Lissa leaned into it as Maribelle buried her face in her shoulder, even though her curly hair tickled. “Is that so?”

“Super so. I’d be miserable if it wasn’t for you.”

“ _Weren’t_ for me.”

“Really? Right now?”

Maribelle let out a watery laugh.

“Please don’t go,” Lissa whispered again. “You’re the very best friend I have. Nothing is the same without you.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize that I was hurting your feelings,” said Maribelle, almost shyly. “I’ll be more diligent in the future, I promise. As long as you want me as your friend, Lissa, I’ll be there for you.”

“Same to you.”

They hugged for a little longer and cried a little bit and then finally let go. Lissa was pretty sure she had snot on her face. She reached into her pocket for her handkerchief, but remembered she’d left it in her room. Maribelle handed hers over without a word. It was a little damp already but Lissa was glad to share.

“In fact,” Lissa said once her face was dry, “I’ve needed your help with something all week. And you and only you are the right girl for the job.”

“Oh?” Maribelle’s dark eyes were suddenly sharp again, curious. “And what might that be?”

“Chrom put a frog in my bed. I need to think of something even nastier to do to him.”

“The brute! We will surely avenge you!” Maribelle only had to think for a second before she grabbed a better idea than Lissa could’ve managed, right out of thin air. “I know! What about those fish you were looking at, earlier? We can leave those under his pillow. He might not even find them until the middle of the night, when he tries to turn it over.”

“Maribelle.”

“I know it’s muddy and awful, but if it’s for a good cause…”

“Maribelle. You’re brilliant.”

“Oh, well.” Despite the dirt on her smock, she lifted her chin proudly and shrugged a curl of hair over her shoulder the way Lissa wished she could manage to do. “I just do my best.”

And in the end, the mud was worth it, the ensuing scolding from her handmaids was worth it, the poor night's sleep spent up and giggling with her reaffirmed best friend was worth it, all to see a bleary-eyed Chrom slam himself down at the breakfast table the next morning and refuse to speak to both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lissa is only 7 or 8 at this point, so I really tried to think back to those years and remember how freaking sensitive we all are at that age and how we take everything so personally. Losing a friend and having a big immature argument that ends up with someone getting tackled; overdramatics and extreme measures. And then, of course, a magical resolution where all wrongdoing is immediately forgotten. Sometimes it’s really hard to be a kid but sometimes it’s great.


	14. Festivities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emmeryn studied the floor as she swept down the hall, despite her usual penchant for looking out the windows as she passed.
> 
> Gangrel, hm?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you've seen “A Knight's Tale” or “Game of Thrones” (though legit let's all band together and stop watching GoT), you know how jousting tournaments work. (And I know the rules because I...read the manuscript...ahahaaaaaa why do I have any friends.) But actually in Arthurian lit, which I'm most fond of, a lot of the tournaments are free-for-alls in huge open areas where the only rules seem to be “stay on your horse FOR GOD'S SAKE STAY ON” because once you're off you gotta fight on foot with a sword until you can't fight no more. So that's what we're going with here.

“Should I send a third letter?” asked Emmeryn.

“He has refused you twice,” Phila replied.

“Yes, but how could he possibly?”

Emmeryn studied the floor as she swept down the hall, despite her usual penchant for looking out the windows as she passed.

_Gangrel, hm?_

Over three years after her father's war had ended, and the power vacuum in Plegia had finally filled. Their new king was elected. A boy born from the slums who'd worked hard, made the right friends, and could reportedly speak very prettily. The people believed in him, and the passion that overtook his voice when he spoke of restoring Plegia. Emmeryn wanted to believe in it all too. She'd sent a formal letter, written in her own hand, inviting him to Ylisse to stay as her honoured guest while they worked out the first official peace treaty between their nations. He'd written back a personal refusal. A little perturbed, Emmeryn sent another letter, excusing his blunt words with his how busy he must be working for his country, assuring him that her offer would stand until he had time to breathe.

He wrote back again, just as quickly, just as adamant: _I do not desire to negotiate now, nor will I in the future. Do not write me again._

“He is in pain, surely,” Emmeryn murmured. He was rumoured to be quite young. He must have suffered greatly at her father's hands, must have a story—if not many stories!--smouldering deep in his heart about Ylissean knights burning somewhere he lived, taking something he meant to eat, slaying someone he loved. “As Plegia heals, he will come around. If I could only make him believe that I have no ill intentions, then perhaps...”

“Your Grace.” Phila sounded amused. “Now is hardly the time. Can you not put it aside, if only for the rest of the day? Look what is in store.”

Emmeryn raised her head and couldn't help the delighted smile that sprang to it. Wooden stands had been erected by the sparring field, hastily but well, decorated with bright flags in the colours of all the houses under her reign. They were packed with spectators watching the knights warming up below. She could see most of her Guard there already.

She followed Phila into the stands and the seat in the centre, saved for her. Before she could even sit her knights were riding up to her, giving her flowers, reaching for her hand. It was difficult to lean over far enough to kiss them all, high as they were on their destriers, but she chose them each a flower from her new collection and tucked them into their hair until she had none left.

“So you are the one Lady Lissa gets it from,” Frederick accused when it was his turn.

“I just couldn't decide who to give my favour to,” Emmeryn confessed. “I love you all so much. Perhaps I'll just give it to Phila. She's the one who has to stay at my side while the rest of you play.”

“It's hardly play, milady,” said Phila. “But yes, I suppose it's a shame. I won the day easily at the last tournament I was able to attend.”

Emmeryn didn't miss the miffed look Frederick shot the pegasus captain over her head, and giggled at it. From the way Phila smiled, she didn't miss it either.

“But there is no place I would rather be than at your side, of course, Your Grace. Would you like my handkerchief for luck, Sir Frederick?”

“You are too kind, Captain.”

“No need to be modest.”

His gaze was on the ring now, the green flecks within his hazel eyes almost afire. It was a look that made Emmeryn's heart shiver up into her throat, where it lodged.

She'd never seen this face on him, but he must surely have worn it often. It was the face his opponents glimpsed before they hit the ground. The face of a man who would cut your throat with white gloves on, keep them spotless, and wear them to tea the very same day. And with an odd, almost unpleasant feeling deep in her gut, the same one she got watching Chrom heft Falchion, she remembered he wasn't a courtier or even a simple bodyguard. He was a warrior, and he knew his craft well, and he could look on another without mercy if he had to.

“I am not refusing to be modest,” he told Phila. “I'm refusing because I need no luck.”

He left to take his position without a backward glance.

“I am not one for overconfident men,” Phila said. Emmeryn, still a little shaken, had no reply.

xXx

The tourney was a free-for-all, and once it finally began with the sounding of a horn, Emmeryn had no idea where to look. There was jousting as far as the eye could see, lances breaking, few unhorsed early. Eventually she began to make out factions: some created alliances with friends, some rode out to pick off the weak quickly, some skirted around battles as if saving their strength or their splintering weapons. Each of the guard tried to have a go at Frederick, though never in a way that seemed like they were joining forces against him. He met them each, taking their points hard against his shield and once against his shoulder, but his horsemanship was good and he remained in the saddle.

“Must they be so hard on him?” Emmeryn asked.

“Your Grace, we accepted your whim, but Frederick does not possess the ability to protect you just because you will it so. Do you know he has never killed a man before?”

Emmeryn had to pause to think about it. She liked the thought, that Frederick had no such stain on his hands, but she knew how impractical it was for a soldier. Phila'd had to kill before, on many occasions. Most of her Guard was well-seasoned. All but Frederick had been at the front of her father's war. He'd been but a squire then, and while he'd surely ridden into some sort of peril with his knight-master, on the fringes closer to the capital, he never spoke about it. Perhaps it hadn't been worth speaking of: a raid warning that ended in a false alarm, a charge that made the enemy retreat without engaging even for a moment. Perhaps it had ended in a shame too deep to talk about, his master slaying an innocent or him gagging too hard at the bloody sight to join in like he was supposed to.

Emmeryn felt safe with him, yes. His natural wariness made him an excellent guard, and that was above criticism. But it did not mean her other guards should not be wary of _him_.

As if to cement her thoughts, Phila said, “He holds a position where any mistake is unforgivable, yet he has never been tested. We have absolutely no idea that he is capable of the drastic measures he might need to take someday, for you. You are lucky there are nineteen more of us, Your Grace.”

“I wish you had warned me, back then, that my decision would have such consequences.”

Phila smiled. “As I recall, I most certainly did. Her Grace is stubborn.” Her gaze gentled and she added, “You have an exceptionally kind disposition, Lady Emmeryn. That's why I didn't push my argument too hard. That's why none of your Guard spoke up against your decision, nor ever complained to you. We trust you with all our hearts.”

“I'm honoured,” Emmeryn murmured, but the words were nearly swallowed by a roar from the crowd. One of the favourites flew out of the saddle, and struggled to her feet in time to meet what Emmeryn assumed by their sigils was an old rival.

Phila turned her attention back to the fray with a wide smile. Only a few of Emmeryn's guard were still mounted by now. The rest had fallen, drawn their swords and locked themselves in tighter combat, intent on slashing each others' defenses to bits.

In the old days, these tournaments had been to death's edge. A contestant wouldn't yield until their shield was hacked to uselessness, their armour dented, and their blood running down to their ankles. Only the brink of unconsciousness was a worthy cause for retreat. Emmeryn was glad the rules had changed to first-blood in the past century, for she winced even watching blows that would only bruise. Worry started to gnaw at her. All the knights knew better than to keep fighting if skin was broken, but what if there was an accident?

A hand covered hers tightly, breaking her thoughts. She found Phila watching her.

“Are you worrying about King Gangrel again?”

“No,” said Emmeryn, feeling silly. Phila wasn't worried. Phila enjoyed the view, in fact. It was all a game. She should behave in a braver, more womanly fashion.

“Is it, perhaps, the reward, then?”

“The what?”

“I briefed you six weeks ago, Your Grace, but with so much happening, it's understandable that you've forgotten. A tournament should rightly be the last of your priorities.”

“Phila, what reward?”

“Today's victor will require a prize. Traditionally, the Exalt grants them one boon. Anything their heart desires.”

“Ah. Yes. I remember.”

Not so much Phila's words, but a hot teacup pressed against her hands, the light in Frederick's eyes as he stood in her doorway.

_The first tournament since before the war will be held over the summer. I'm going to win it._

The worry continued: not as heavy as Gangrel's, not as sharp as the ringing of blades against helmets. It was soft, kneading. It took Emmeryn a few minutes to realize that she wasn't sure if she was worried or excited.

xXx

In the end, as promised, it was Frederick the bystanders cheered for, Frederick who rode back to Emmeryn and dismounted to kneel and offer his sword. It was just as she'd seen those many months ago, watching him train alone. He was not the fastest or the strongest or the most experienced, but he was the most passionate by far. No detail of combat escaped him. No trick got through his watchful defenses. And now he had a surety in the set of his shoulders, something he hadn't had long ago, something that made most of his opponents think twice. That half-second of hesitation was all he'd needed.

“Rise,” said Emmeryn, and Frederick rose. He sheathed his nicked blade. “You're a man of your word, I see.”

“I shall never fail milady. She is the reason I was able to ride today with so many knights whom I respect so greatly.”

“So what would you have of her?”

“Is it true that she will grant anything I ask?”

“It is.”

Frederick's lips grew thinner as he thought. “I must be honest: your gratitude is too broad. May I have time to think of something suitable?”

It was so like him that Emmeryn laughed aloud, shattering the formalities. Yes, perhaps her friend was something of a military genius, but once she set him loose, free of rules and structure, he was absolutely helpless.

“Take all the time you need,” she said.

“That was well done,” said Phila from beside her, and Frederick broke then too, grinning like she'd never seen before.

xXx

Parties were so boring.

Chrom tugged at his collar and wiggled in his seat. Everyone was seated at very long tables around the ballroom, but dessert was practically over and he was eager to get up and do literally anything else. The grown-ups would be dancing for hours and he was expected to join in at some point, or at least be nice to the other nobles his age.

He figured he could do that much. He liked making new friends.

But first there were toasts, toasts for miles, toasts for days: for Emmeryn's health, for Emmeryn's happiness (that was new, Chrom thought, and he liked it and raised his cup of juice very high), for peaceful relations with the new King Gangrel of Plegia, for Chrom himself because he was a prince or something, for Lissa too, for Frederick since he'd won the tournament, and then that all devolved into toasts for all the knights who participated and all the people who helped throw this gala after, and then Emmeryn wanted to make a toast for the realm and all the people in it, those left homeless that night and those without families and those suffering from illnesses and the poor, until everyone looked a little uncomfortable and things finally dispersed with one last swallow.

Chrom hopped up to go explore the scene. Hundreds and hundreds of candles were lit, making even the gigantic room seem bright and cheery. He looked for Lissa to see what she was up to when something slammed into his side and knocked him to the floor.

“What was that for?” he demanded through the pain in his hip, but it was like no one even heard him. Sprawled over his legs was a ruddy girl with red hair, and sprawled over _her_ was a second girl, with frizzy curls in her face through which she was trying to screech multiple apologies.

“Wow,” said the redhead, craning her neck a bit to catch a glimpse of Chrom. “You knocked down the prince.”

“I'm sorry! I really am! I just tripped and--”

“No harm,” Chrom said quickly, since she looked so terrified. “Just get off? Please?”

The three untangled themselves and stood. They'd caused a bit of the scene, but the adults seemed content to turn an indulgent blind eye, since nothing had been broken and no one was hurt.

“What happened?” Chrom asked.

“This kid ran into me and knocked me right into you,” said the redhead.

“I'm so sorry,” the girl with the curls said again. “I was concentrating so hard on walking without spilling my punch that I forgot to actually look where I was walking.”

That was so bizarre that Chrom couldn't even register it as funny, at first. The redhead put her hands on her hips and stared down at her own crimson and ivory skirts—which were covered in deep red punch stains.

“Well, you did spill.”

The clumsy girl whimpered and sank to her knees to examine the damage, insisting, “I'm the worst!”, and just when Chrom was afraid things were about to get genuinely nasty, the redhead looked down and repeated,

“The worst? No way, lady! You're the best! I've been looking for excuses to get out of this awful, itchy deathtrap all night! Now I can wear something more comfortable. Maybe even my riding breeches. Mother would prefer even that to a stain, I'm sure. So thanks!”

The clumsy girl stared up like she'd suddenly forgotten how to speak.

“Sully,” said the redhead, and extended a hand down, and helped pull her back to her feet.

“Sumia,” she stammered back.

“Chrom,” said Chrom, just to be annoying.

“I didn't spill on you too, did I, Chrom?” Sumia fretted, and soon both girls were turning him about and looking for stray droplets, and then all of them were laughing at how ridiculously they were behaving.

xXx

Emmeryn knew what was coming even before Phila's warning.

The gala was for many reasons: so everyone could mingle after the tournament, so Emmeryn could touch base with high-housed nobles from the farther reaches of Ylisse, a proper celebration of Ylisse's newfound stability, a grand reopening to a long tradition paused by war, and simple good fun.

And Emmeryn's subtle debut. She was to find a suitor soon, and surely every eligible man (and his parents) were talking about how best to become that suitor. Exalt of Ylisse.

A special dress had been made for the occasion: a beautiful cream ballgown decorated with sprays of lace and strings of sewn-in pearls. Emmeryn was very sad when she found out that such a wasteful, elaborate thing had been made without her blessing. She had it dismantled, sold, and the money moved to the corner of the treasury she reserved for charity. She wore what she always wore that night: a cleric's robes and her phelonion. She was the Exalt, yes, but above it all she was a servant of the people still. Made to heal and to guide and to speak the word of Naga. It would be too easy to forget that in a queen's gown. People would look at her and simply disremember all the hours of study and practice she'd poured into learning to heal, to weave spells from ancient texts, all the prayers she'd said and vows she'd taken, how many hours she'd spent on her knees. Perhaps she would even forget, herself.

Phila smiled and touched her hair to see her emerge from her room in the same garb as always. “You look beautiful, Your Grace.”

It didn't feel like empty flattery when Phila said it. Here in the ballroom, with men constantly asking to dance, she wasn't so sure. She was grateful for the white gloves separating their skin.

Still, even blessed with riches and status, these were members of her flock too. Emmeryn genuinely enjoyed conversing with each as they danced, prying into their interests and dreams. She learned names, siblings' names, names of pets. Her ankles tired, and then her shins, and then her lower back, but wine kept her on her feet for dance after dance. It wouldn't do to offend anyone by declining.

To the credit of a few partners, they noticed her tiring and banded together to persuade her to sit down for a while. She spoke to a few of them at the table then, spoke to Chrom and the sweet new friends he introduced, waved to Lissa and Maribelle as they scampered through the crowd. She wondered where her dull, dreary mood that day had come from, especially when she was surrounded by so many wonderful people.

“Your Grace?”

Frederick's voice behind her made her turn in her chair. He had a drink in each hand. His was amber and hardly touched. He handed her the other. She tasted it, pleased to find cool water.

“Thank you,” she said as she motioned for him to sit beside her. “How is your shoulder?”

“You saw that hit, Your Grace? I'm truly ashamed. It was an error on my part.”

“It wasn't enough to unhorse you.”

“Sheer luck, that. As it stands, it's not bruised too badly. I really should be the one asking about your welfare.”

“My welfare?” She blinked at him. “I haven't been in any fights today.”

“And yet you seem the most attacked.”

He glared toward the dance floor over the rim of his glass and Emmeryn sighed.

“Their advances are perfectly appropriate. Phila made it more than clear that I will have to marry soon. They surely know it too. Besides, it's not as if I'll become betrothed tonight. As I've told you before, there is nothing wrong with simple courting. It could perhaps even be pleasant.”

Marriage and bed-sharing, those things still made her blood slow in her veins. But to have someone to spend idle time with without needing an excuse for it, to have a hand to hold when she was lonely, to have the slow development of pet names and in-jokes and secrets and trust...what would be unpleasant about that?

“I do wish you would be more careful,” said Frederick.

“I think no one is careful enough for you. What on earth could be the danger here?”

He nodded toward a few of the men who had asked her for dances earlier, now talking amongst each other by the drinks.

“Careful scrutiny has revealed to me that Lord Derick is not moderate in his drinking habits, Lord Alaric is as quick-witted as a quintain, Lord Richard possesses a most tasteless sense of humour, and Lord Trent is a complete conversational narcissist.”

“Won't you tell me how you truly feel?”

“They'd become more aggressive with even an imagined _hint_ of your assent, Emmeryn.”

“That is nice, isn't it? At this rate, finding a husband will be easy.”

His jaw clenched hard. Even though making light had been the only way she knew to make herself feel better, guilt clotted her mood like vinegar in milk.

“I hope you will not consider any of them as candidates,” Frederick finally said. “None of them are good enough.”

“Nobody is good enough for you.”

“This is simply untrue.”

“Who would you have me court, then?” The wine made her bold. “You?”

His didn't look at her but his expression stayed exactly as dour as always. “No. Me least of all.”

“What about for yourself? You never court anyone for long. Isn't anyone good enough for you?”  
  
“I hear Phila is the best,” he answered with the same straight face, and Emmeryn laughed hard, but that was probably the wine too.

xXx

It was deep in the night when it finally hit her.

Lissa had been toddled off to bed by her maids first, rubbing her sleepy eyes, her beautiful yellow gown unfathomably stained with some kind of food Emmeryn didn't even remember having been served. Maribelle went with her, looking just as tired, but prim as always. Chrom was next, bidding farewell to Sully and Sumia, making plans to see them at the next gathering. Frederick ended the night with a dozen drinks on as many tables, all pressed to him by admiring knights, but none emptied more than a sip. He didn't ask for his favour yet. Emmeryn thought he'd hold onto it for a long time, as he kissed her knuckles and excused himself for bed.

And when she got there herself, long after midnight, right before she could drift off, a firmly penned line came back to her and suddenly everything about her awful, unshakable trepidation made sense.

_I do not desire to negotiate now, nor will I in the future. Do not write me again._

Gangrel. If Gangrel did not want peace, there could not be peace. Not unless he had no other choice.

Emmeryn resolved to write him again in the morning. To beg and plead for a treaty at every opportunity, to offer compensation for the war, to quicken the reopening of trade networks. Because if she could not get him to listen to reason, she had only two other options:

either show up at his doorstep with an army, as her father had, or unite their fates and their countries permanently, by arranging a marriage.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose the free-for-all over the traditional joust because I figured it would be more believable. I mean, Frederick's really good at what he does, but the odds of him beating so many more skilled veterans—one by one in a long line--are still pretty slim. In a free-for-all he'd have a better chance, so long as he kept his wits about him, because they'd also have to fight each other and he could use it to his advantage.
> 
> Anyway blah blah blah insert more of my troubles in my ongoing exercise to not take things seriously here. It's so. difficult. not. to take things. seriously. for me.


	15. Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can say that Naga came to me in a dream last night.”
> 
> Frederick hesitated. “Did she?”
> 
> Emmeryn hesitated too. “No.”

For the next entire year, Emmeryn continued to try to negotiate a treaty with Gangrel, and he continued to write her letters of refusal. Frederick could tell when she received one even before she mentioned the news to her Guard, attuned to the confusion in her eyes and the tired slump in her shoulders. If he was on duty that night, he sometimes slipped in to rub the latter, while she sat on her parlour couch and buried her face in her hands.

“He said he wants to keep his options open,” she confessed once from between her palms. “What could that possibly mean?”

Frederick’s thumb mapped out a massive knot between her neck and shoulder blade. She gasped just slightly when he dug into it. He forced his mind back onto Gangrel as a deep, heavy pang of guilt dropped into his stomach.

“He can’t possibly want another war, can he?” she asked. “I can’t believe that. Plegia’s armies were broken. Their economy was completely destroyed. That’s just—ah…”

Her head tilted as he pressed deeper, a short, soft moan catching in her throat. Frederick took his hands from her skin so fast that she turned in alarm to look at him.

“That shoulder’s too stiff,” he said. “I don’t think I can work it out without bruising you. Perhaps heat would be better. I’ll draw you a bath.”

He felt her eyes on his back as he hurried off to do so. He did not undress her, the way he so casually used to. Emmeryn, in her infinite grace, did not mention it.

xXx

“Gangrel must have ill intentions,” said Phila at the next meeting, but the ambassador to Plegia shook his head and stood.

Frederick watched him carefully from his position by the door. He was a plain enough man. Swarthy and pale-haired like many Plegians, but with his mixed heritage made obvious by his very Ylissean facial structure. He seemed unassuming, for someone who by virtue of his stature must be so intelligent. Ambassador was an extremely competitive position.

“With all due respect, Captain Phila, in Plegian culture it is a difficult thing to say ‘yes,’ especially for something as permanent and important as a treaty. Many don’t like to speak in direct terms or make official long-term plans. Life is unpredictable, and as a desert people, they understand this very well. They simply don’t consider it rational, let alone polite, to agree to something until it’s very certain.”

“I am very certain,” Emmeryn insisted.

“I know you are, Your Grace. Perhaps what the new king doubts is himself. Either he can’t justify spending money on an appropriate peace offering, or he’s afraid that for some reason he can’t fulfill a term you might propose—free and open trade, perhaps, if his economic advisors are suggesting heavy regulation. He may consider it more prudent to refuse you very firmly, until he is in a more accommodating position, to avoid leading you on. It may even be a matter of pride. Perhaps if Your Grace would volunteer to make the journey, rather than inviting him to Ylisse, he would understand that you don’t intend to lord over him.”

“A good idea,” Emmeryn mused, though Frederick saw the doubt in her eyes. She was too busy to attempt such a meeting at the moment, with Ylisse still righting itself. But her adept spark was back in no time, and she looked up at the ambassador.

“May I send you instead? Just to lay out a tentative framework, perhaps, that Gangrel and his advisors can contribute to as they feel comfortable? And then, for the final signing, I will make the time to come, myself?”

“I cannot guarantee their cooperation, but I would be delighted to try, Your Grace.”

“Who shall I send with you? You can choose two of my Guard.”

The man thought for a long moment before finally shaking his head. “You’re generous, Your Grace, but it would be wiser of me to go alone. If King Gangrel does harbour ill will, he might not treat knights who enter his kingdom with any kindness.”

Emmeryn bit her lip at that, and the whole room seemed to grow sombre. Everyone, the Guard especially, remembered the campaign in Plegia. The atrocities committed on both sides. While Frederick hadn’t ridden to the country proper, even his time as a young teen on the border had been less than pleasant, marked by hate crimes and lootings. The man he’d been squired to had kept silent. Frederick’s protests were dismissed as youthful and naive, and the violence continued where he was never quite able to see it or complain about it—or prove it.

“I’ll give you the day to pack and spend time with your family,” Emmeryn said finally. “Please leave tomorrow. Go with Naga’s blessing.”

The ambassador bowed low. “Yes, Your Grace.”

xXx

A short time later, a letter arrived for Emmeryn. The ambassador said that he arrived in good health, was housed comfortably, and had personally met with King Gangrel. He described the man as charming and down-to-earth—the perfect ally, if they could obtain him. He said that negotiations would begin soon and he’d write her with any news.

A few days later, a Plegian messenger arrived with a gift for her. It was too large to be jewellery, too small to be a dress, too light to be books, too heavy to be sweets. It was impeccably wrapped in heavily perfumed paper that made Frederick’s nose wrinkle.

Emmeryn was delighted. She’d had no idea that things would move so quickly. She received the gift in her rooms, after Frederick had gingerly plied every crevice under the lid for glass shards or razors. Phila stood by Emmeryn’s side as she sat on the parlour couch. A third guard showed the messenger off to his room.

Phila and Emmeryn were both smiling, but Frederick couldn’t help but pace around the room a bit as Emmeryn took the time to admire the nice wrapping. He chided himself for his anxiety. This was a gesture of goodwill. Gangrel was doing the right thing; finally opening the way for peace. Then Emmeryn carefully pulled off the bright paper and a smell escaped that brought back all his fears.

“Your Grace, don’t,” said Phila suddenly, but Emmeryn had already lifted the lid.

Frederick felt frozen in place for a long moment. More of the horrible smell surged out. Phila winced but Emmeryn did not move, save to cover her mouth with a hand as tears began to silently course down her cheeks. With leaden legs, Frederick returned to her side. He was just in time to see the ambassador’s wide-eyed, bloody head before Emmeryn closed the box again.

“This is an act of war,” said Phila. It was Frederick’s first thought as well, fists clenching at his sides. But all Emmeryn whispered through her tears was,

“He had a little boy and girl at home—ten and eight years old. How shall I tell his wife?”

They couldn’t give her his rotting skull, that was for sure. Frederick pulled the box from Emmeryn’s slack grip, breathing through his mouth, to dispose of it.

“The messenger who brought this needs to be interrogated at once, Captain Phila.”

He wasn’t heard. Phila lurched forward, throwing one arm around Emmeryn’s shoulders and using the other hand to hold back her hair, and Frederick wasn’t swift enough to avoid hearing his lady retching as he rounded the doorpost.

Naturally, by the time he made it to the room the messenger had been given, foul box still under his arm, the Plegian was long gone. Frederick’s baffled, frightened comrade held a fresh corpse who’d collapsed without any notice. The physician that looked at him later reported to the Guard that there was poison between his teeth. He’d most likely volunteered to go for Gangrel, even if it meant suicide, so long as he could deliver the Ylissean Exalt her present.

“Coward,” Frederick had cursed through his clenched jaw. “There was no reason for this. Milady is a saint. Even a messenger bearing insults and death would be safe in her castle.”

“Let’s not tell Emmeryn,” Phila'd said softly. “Not unless she asks.”

xXx

But of course she did, immediately, once they returned to her room:

“You haven’t harmed him, have you? He was only a messenger.”

Frederick and Phila shared a long look. Phila was the one to break the news. Frederick wasn’t sure if that made her colder than him or braver. Perhaps both.

Emmeryn didn’t cry, this time. Perhaps she’d cried herself dry against Phila while Frederick was elsewhere. She looked terribly pale and drained, though her green eyes were still steely. She merely dismissed them. Phila left at once to debrief but Frederick remained, worry continuing to gnaw. He heard the door close behind him.

For a moment he just looked at her. Her curls were mussed from Phila holding them and he wanted to smooth them back into order. He wondered if her stomach hurt and pushed away the urge to rub her back until it stopped.

“Are you well?” he asked softly. She only stared back at him.

“I threw up until there was nothing left. You and Phila...you hardly reacted.”

“We have been trained for things like this.” It was Frederick’s first time experiencing true gore so closely, but certainly not Phila’s. Emmeryn wrung her hands for a moment.

“I have to leave within the hour, if I’m to make it to the ambassador’s house.”

“You can send someone else. You don’t have to do it personally.”

“Phila will come with me.”

“You don’t have to go at all, then.”

“I do. I’m the one who sent him to his death. His wife deserves my apology and anything else I can give to her.”

“Do not blame yourself for Gangrel’s crimes,” Frederick ordered sharply. “Stay here and rest.”

“It has to be me. I can tell her that I’d suspected it. That Naga came to me in a dream last night and told me in great detail that he lives in Paradise with her now, in eternal warmth and comfort and joy.”

He hesitated. “Did she?”

Emmeryn hesitated too. “No.”

Frederick had nothing to say to that. After a moment Emmeryn reached forward, fingertips hooking into his sleeve.

“Are you on duty this afternoon?” she whispered. He covered her hand with his, pressed her palm harder against the arm sworn to serve and protect her.

“No, milady. I’ll come with you, too.”

xXx

Frederick had always assumed that war was the most difficult thing in the world. Finding the will to plunge a weapon into someone, to end a life.

He'd been wrong. Killing was only the beginning. There was so much aftermath to deal with, and that was far harder.

The ambassador's wife froze in the doorway of her fine manor house to see them all. She obviously couldn't imagine why the Exalt herself would come to her home. Emmeryn delivered the news as gently as possible, and when the woman broke down in tears against the doorpost, wrapped her in a strong hug. It was difficult not to wince, to remain stoic.

Emmeryn at least seemed perfectly at peace, strong and unshaken for a member of her flock. She shushed her soothingly, spoke of eternal bliss and heavenly rewards.

“He will never suffer again—not a single runny nose, not a bad taste in his mouth, not a stiff neck. Can you imagine it? At this moment he can feel only delight, and he's waiting for you. I will provide for your family in his stead, so you mustn't worry.”

The wife calmed easily at those words, nodding into Emmeryn's shoulder, sagging into her arms. The children, who came to the doorway to find their mother crying, were not so easily mollified. Their sobs were loud and unrestrained.

They were close to Chrom and Lissa's age, and for a moment Frederick wondered what he'd do with them in their stead. Long ago he'd handed a toddling Lissa his handkerchief. It didn't feel appropriate now. This was different, harsher. He and Chrom and Lissa hadn't wept so hard at their fathers' deaths. What filial piety had there ever been, for the three of them? What pleasant memories had there been to mourn?

Frederick had never felt the grief he saw before him. His had been just a bitter numbness and the vague, gnawing realization that he’d lost all his chances to earn his father's love. The pain had only come later, at odd times, at moments he wasn't able to cry.

But Emmeryn somehow managed empathy for them too, releasing their mother when she could stand alone, kneeling to gather them to her next and pepper their hair with kisses and promise them that they'd all be together again someday.

The calming effect she had was incredible. She left the mother with gold and a promise to send more. The family was still dewy-eyed but well past denial and hysterics when she climbed back into her carriage. Frederick found it interesting that none of them had asked for retribution, for revenge on Gangrel. Perhaps that was due to Emmeryn's influence as well. It was so hard to hate when she was loving you so overwhelmingly.

How did the Plegian bastard manage it?

He and Phila climbed in after her and shut the carriage door. If Emmeryn's soothing, perfect, genuine caring were a type of magic—and Frederick was starting to wonder—then she had clearly over-exhausted herself, dug into her deepest reservoirs and emptied everything. She looked more haggard than even the moment she'd clung to his sleeve as they rode back together. Phila, sitting at her side, put an arm around her shoulders. Emmeryn put her crown in her lap and rested her head in the crook of the other woman’s neck.

Frederick didn’t want to look. He folded his hands tightly between his knees and fixed his gaze out the window for the rest of the journey. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's canon that Gangrel does everything he can think of to instigate a war in the years before FE13 happens. This seemed like a properly offensive starting place.


	16. Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't kill him! Frederick, don't you dare!"
> 
> "Your Grace," he seethed back, but dropped his weapon into the grass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Generally when I write I do it out of order and skip to the scenes I want to write the most. So basically this entire chapter was written like at the same time I wrote the first chapter. Oops.

One afternoon Emmeryn took a turn about the palace gardens.

It was a beautiful day in late spring, with everything in full bloom. The sun warmed the mantle on her shoulders. It felt like someone had been hugging her tightly, leaving the imprint of their body heat, and had only just pulled away. Phila walked on her left side and Frederick on her right. They were both speaking amiably, so calm that Emmeryn nearly forgot the rhythmic drum of Phila's spear on the path with their steps, or the clank of the hand axe Frederick had on his belt. She was content to simply listen and walk and feel the sun beating down on her.

The hedges were so green, so thick, giving her hope for a bountiful summer and autumn. They were decorated with flurries of peaked flowers, white and pink and purple. They stirred in the gentle breeze and that breeze plucked off petals, adding to the movement it caused, making them swirl and flutter before they landed for good on the ground. It was a beautiful movement. And then, between two large blossoms, a glint like silver—

Phila's cry rang harsh in her ear and Frederick hurled his axe. There was a scream, a spray of blood against the flowers she'd been looking at. A man crashed forward through the hedges and fell with a hard thump. His knives, one for each hand, fell out of his grasp; Frederick kicked them out of reach and wrenched out his axe. Emmeryn's stomach twisted at the second scream.

"Get inside," Frederick ordered, and Phila grabbed her arm without hesitation to drag her away. Emmeryn was pulled a few steps before she was able to think, able to open her mouth. She cried over her shoulder,

"Don't kill him! Frederick, don't you dare!"

"Your Grace," he seethed back, but dropped his weapon into the grass. The assassin obviously wasn't going anywhere. Emmeryn twisted, even though that made Phila intensify her yanking, to watch Frederick sit on his heels beside the bleeding body and give it his most pleasant smile.

"Had a bit of a spill, there, did we?" he asked, and the man's trembling lips opened.

“Your Grace,” Phila snapped, and Emmeryn turned back, hurried to match her pace, let herself be shepherded inside the nearest door.

There was no reason to struggle. She'd find everything out later; the assassin would tell Frederick whatever he wanted. You didn't lie to a man who towered over you even when he crouched. You didn't ignore someone who had almost lost his purpose.

She felt oddly numb when she reached her room, even when Phila shut the door behind them, even when the captain pulled her close, close and tight enough to make an imprint like the sun.

“Your Grace.” Her voice broke.

Emmeryn wrapped her arms around Phila in turn and began to stroke back her tightly-bound hair. “There, there. We're all right.”

xXx

That night Emmeryn wanted to go to sleep immediately. She wrapped herself in her coziest nightgown and silkiest robe, drank entirely too much tea, had to get up to relieve herself, and could not lie back down for the life of her. She couldn't get her mind off the fear in the eyes of the man in the garden. Instead she paced before her window, back and forth, until a soft knock made her pause.

Frederick was there when she opened the door, looking unusually tight in the face, even for him. Tea roiled in her stomach.

"Your Grace," he said quietly. "We extracted what we could from him. He was radical; unaffiliated with Plegia. He acted alone, out of a personal political motivation, and the threat has ended with him."   
  
"Ended," she whispered. He looked away.  
  
"The cleric was not able to do much for him. My aim was too true."

"Was he comfortable?"

"We generally do not spare comforts for assassins, milady. But he was not treated poorly in his last hours, no. I dare say they did all they could for him."

"I suppose that's all I could ask." She shut her eyes against the tears forming, and squeezed down tighter when she heard his exasperated sigh. Fingers closed over her shoulder and pulled her into the room. She heard the door shut behind them.

"You made it clear you never wanted to weep in public," he said by way of apology.

"Yes." Even her whisper was watery. "Thank you."

She could still feel the tension with her eyes closed. It built and she struggled not to tremble before he finally hissed,

"You're being ridiculous, Emmeryn! He was going to  _murder_ you!" 

"Don't you understand?" she demanded as she opened her eyes. This time she was unashamed of the tears that fell. "Am I to find a way to justify this? Was saving my life worth ending his?" 

"I will not respond to that. I fear you will find my words apoplectic."

"Please, consider it! We don't know a thing about him."

"We know he had no problem trying to kill an innocent!"

"Why is this guilt tearing at me, then? Perhaps I've wronged him, somehow. Perhaps he was a good friend. Perhaps a loving husband or father or brother. What have I done to deserve life more than he?"

He suddenly looked as though he wished to grab her face. "How dare you say that in front of me."

"Frederick," she tried to soothe, realizing her mistake, but she'd already set him off:

"What have  _you_ done?  _You_ ? Your life for his, you say? Pray, would  _I_ be alive, if it weren't for you? If you hadn't hand-picked me to put at your side  _specifically_ so you could tell me that I was worth something?" 

"That's not the only reason and you know it. Do not talk about yourself so pathetically." They were both clasping their hands together now like there was nothing else to hold on to, her across her stomach, him behind his back.  

"I did not strike him because he committed treason,” he said. “The Frederick of a few years ago surely would have, but you have changed me from the man I was going to be. I was not exacting a punishment; I was no executioner. I was doing good by saving someone good. Think on how good you are, Emmeryn. Think of how Ylisse needs you, how Chrom and Lissa need you, how  _I_ have needed you, and ask whether your life is worth ending another's for." 

"You are so blind," she whispered. Suddenly weak-kneed, as if the fear she should have felt in the garden was simply long delayed, she sank onto the edge of her bed. Frederick and Phila were her pillars, and so much of the strength she had was because she knew that if her facade cracked, one of them—always calm and composed—would be there to support her. To see both crumble, one after the other, made her heart beat too fast. " _No one_ is worth more or less than anyone else. War will always continue until people realize this. I thought you of all people understood. Now you just make a mockery of my faith." 

"I didn't—"

He stopped. It was so like him to leave words unsaid that Emmeryn leaned forward, as if to coax the rest of his sentence out. The moonlight made him look ghastly; pale and overtired. But he did not speak again until he'd crossed the room, sank to his knees before her, and pressed his face to her own knees.

"I know I have displeased you. But I must be stubborn in this, Your Grace."

"On the morrow," she murmured, "I am ordering all my guards to spare the lives of any future assailants whenever possible."

"It won't matter. I did not kill him because I am your guard."

"I don't want friends who will murder for my sake."

"I did not kill him because I am your friend, either."

"So what are you?" She was suddenly so frightened of where this conversation was going that her voice came out breathless.

"I am  _yours_ , Emmeryn. Whatever you want or need me to be.”

“What?”

“Can you not understand? That assassin almost took you. The Exalt.”

“I am as human as the rest of you,” Emmeryn reprimanded, but he shook his head fiercely against her.

“My _Exalt_ , my work, my life's purpose, my honour; everything that ever mattered to me. But none of that mattered to me, then. None of it even crossed my mind. When I struck, all I could think was that he almost took the only person who has ever loved me."

For the first time in their lives, suddenly he was the child keeping a carefully straight face and she was the one with sincere strength. The very way the blood pumped back and forth in her veins was a soothing rock, her every exhalation was the hum of a wordless, breathy lullaby. She began to stroke Frederick's hair gingerly, feeling that if she applied any pressure, he might burst.

"I'm not the only one," she murmured. "I am but the first of many."

His shoulders didn't hitch and he didn't make a sound, but soon a hot dampness was bleeding into her lap.

“I failed you today,” he said thickly. “My dearest friend.”

“But you didn't. All this anxiety for nothing, Frederick.” She wove her fingers a little deeper into his hair. “I'm just fine. I'm always safe with Phila, and I'm always safe with you.”

“That isn't what I mean.”

And then it hit her.

This was the first person Frederick had killed. He'd committed the highest sin for her but could receive no forgiveness, let alone gratitude. She'd scolded him as an Exalt should have, hadn't accepted the sacrifice. It threw up a wall between them, his morality against hers, honour and friendship against Naga's perfect, unflinching laws.

They 'd never had any choice in the matter. Deep down, Emmeryn had always known it would probably come to pass. 

He'd wanted another way out as much as she'd wanted it for him, she realized. He hadn't wanted her to see him as a murderer from now on. He hadn't wanted her to mourn someone else, to fight back tears, to have guilt keep her from sleep. He'd failed her by failing to walk her path, failing to keep his hands clean. It was simply the way it had played out.

It was a debt Emmeryn was unsure how to repay.

“I can be your pillar tonight,” she whispered to him. “I can be your shield.”

She curled her body over him, smoothed his hair and rubbed his back, and he wept quietly against her for a long time. Her tears finally broke free too, but she didn't let him see.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is pacing? Baby don't hurt me


End file.
